


One Winter Knight

by Marvel_Mockingjays



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), DCU
Genre: AKA lots of swearing, Ages are all more comic accurate too, And eventually Jason Todd, Arkham Asylum, Because Two Face, Explicit Language, F/M, Gotham City - Freeform, Like a hella long slow burn, Love Triangles, Maybe even Duke Thomas eventually, Mentions/cameos of other DC heroes and villains, Multi, Organized Crime, Private Investigators, Romance, Slight AU for Arkham Games, Slow Burn, Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain and Damian Wayne also exist goddammit, Trust me she's a smart cookie, Violence, Who am I kidding it's a big AU for the Arkham Games, because why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 19:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 124,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19012033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvel_Mockingjays/pseuds/Marvel_Mockingjays
Summary: A dark clad, brooding vigilante dressed in a bat costume who's rather emotionally stunted and trying to stop her from doing her job; check.A former DA with a split personality, a dirty mouth (half the time) and vast criminal empire who's given her three days to sort this shit out; check.A narcissistic, riddle obsessed megalomaniac who has decided she's his next puzzle; check.A bloody, precarious, all-out mob war that she just so happened to see instigated by the deaths of two important people in an alley one night; check.Evangeline Winter didn't quite predict the implications of being a kind private investigator meddling with a not-so-kind mob war in Gotham City, but by God she won't let that stop her from putting an end to these criminals' petty squabbles. No matter how many times those around her underestimate her.SLOW BURN





	1. Full Summary

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously don’t own DC comics or any DC characters (used or mentioned). I only own Evangeline Winter, Rebecca Daniels, the plot BEFORE Arkham Asylum starts, and a few characters later on in the story. All rights belong to DC.

**Full Summary:**

Corruption. Brutality. Deception. Injustice. Four words that describe Gotham city in a nutshell. Sure, they may have their Dark Knight, but he’s not the sign of hope the people need. He’s a product of what the debauched city is capable of creating in times of desperation. He’s harsh, unorthodox, and can turn entirely apathetic when it comes to extracting information and serving his ‘justice’.

Then, there is Eve.

Decently new to the unwritten policies and way of life in Gotham, she’s untainted and impervious to the corruption wrought crime capital. Eve has been aiding Jim Gordon with a few cases privately – due to her being a private investigator – but for her discretion, he has remained unwaveringly silent, despite the rest of the precinct hounding him for his suspicious efficiency in case closing.

A mob war is peeking over the horizon, threatening to run the streets with blood, bullets and a high body count. With the mafia families and rogues on high alert, the last person they would ever expect to dismantle their carefully organised operation is an uncorrupted, virtuous woman from the sunny city of Greenville, North Carolina.

Filled with crime, ass-kicking, deception, love and the dramatic flair of Gotham’s top drama queens – otherwise known as the infamous Rogue’s Gallery – ‘One Winter Knight’ tells a tale of Evangeline Winter unwittingly intertwining herself within the tendrils of Gotham’s criminal underworld, unintentionally catching the eyes of a certain rodent dressed vigilante and a couple of Gotham’s most deplorable criminals whilst she’s at it.

And when does our audacious story begin you ask?

One cold winter’s night, in the notorious, dark city of Gotham.

(Two Face/Eve, Batman/Eve and a bit of Riddler/Rebecca(OC) pairing)


	2. PART ONE: A New Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just enough madness  
> to make her  
> interesting  
> ~ Atticus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT STORY
> 
> Hey! Thanks for clicking on this story and giving it a go. I have it posted on Wattpad and Fanfiction.net as well, but thought may as well upload it here too.
> 
> Quick thing about the story. The first half of it will be my plot, pre-Arkham Asylum, with alterations to the Arkham games' interpretations of the characters. Not massive ones, but my depiction of these characters is a mix of the Arkham games and Batman: The Animated Series. Not as bright and cheerful as Batman: The Animated Series, but the characters aren't as hostile towards one another as they are in the Arkham games (because let's face it, we all love the nerdy trio that consists of Riddler, Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter). You'll probably have comic elements of them as well while you're at it (because why not). Character interactions may be marginally different than those in the games as a result, but Eve (my OC) also already creates a slight AU to the games' timeline as a result of her interfering. Overall it's kept pretty similar to the games though.
> 
> Oh and ages will slightly be altered too, because honestly?? Barbara and Tim??? Like nothing against it personally but what are their ages in these games?? And Dick's?? And Jason's? Anywho, alterations to age will be made as well, but not massive alterations. Hopefully more comic accurate.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

_“We should not be afraid to go into a new era, to leave the old beyond.”_ ~Zack Wamp

_JANUARY 9 TH, 2016 – PARK ROW, GOTHAM CITY_

One winter night on January 9th 2016 in an alleyway so corrupt and dark the devil himself wouldn’t dare set foot in it; Sal Maroni inadvertently snuffed out the light of one era and brought on the dawn of the next. It happened in the same alleyway where Bruce Wayne’s late parents were murdered in cold blood. It happened not five meters from where their stone cold bodies lay limp as a traumatised, sobbing eight year old boy gripped their scarlet stained clothing in anguish and unrecognisable ire. It happened only one agonising hour apart from the same time of night of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s undeserving demise twenty six years prior.

And just like their two deaths brought on the era of Gotham’s Dark Knight that one fateful evening, the two deaths of Alexandra Markovic and Sean O’Reilly dawned a new era of change; the era of Gotham’s Guardian Angel.

Sal Maroni is generally a reasonable man, which is why it took the other major mafia families some time to fathom _why_ he would kill the eldest daughter of mob boss Dmitri Markovic _and_ the middle son to mob boss Colin O’Reilly. The two heirs were to be married, as a form of strengthening the bond between the Markovic and O’Reilly crime families. _Why_ crime lord Sal Maroni would unjustifiably gun down the kids to two _very_ powerful crime bosses and instigate a ruthless, bloody mob war that would run the streets redder than an infinite poppy field, no one knew.

No one knew, but Evangeline Winter.

The Monarch Theatre was showing _The Revenant_ , and contrary to what a lot of men thought, not all women frequented the theatres to watch it simply so they could fawn over a very rugged Leonardo DiCaprio. That was just a bonus to Eve.

She tossed the rest of her stale popcorn into the bin carelessly, drinking dry the rest of her Pepsi before the paper cup met the same fate. All in all, it wasn’t a bad movie. Definitely one of Leo’s best in her opinion, but she could think of a few of his movies that deserved an Oscar before it.

She strolled out of the theatre leisurely, the crisp, winter chill instantly slapping her cheeks mercilessly. She tugged her white, just above knee-length trench coat closer around her, attempting to ward off the cold. What to do now, she wasn’t too sure. Eve didn’t need to worry about staying out late and being tired for work the next day. She didn’t have any cases on at the moment, which was one of the perks of being a private investigator/detective. She chose her own cases when someone called her up, and if she wanted to, she could easily decline them. She was her own boss, and that was _definitely_ another great pro about working a one-woman job.

Sure, she had worked with Commissioner James Gordon privately the past four months when he found himself in a pickle, but due to her not legally allowed to visit crime scenes or have access to classified files, he hired and payed her under the table. Not even his esteemed ex-detective partner Harvey Bullock knew her name, only a vague knowledge that _someone_ was occasionally helping Gordon out, and that that someone wasn’t Batman for once.

Batman knew of her. Of course he knew of her. He hadn’t bothered or approached her thank the lord – she may have had a heart attack if he did – but she knew that he knew of her identity and what she did. He was the World’s Greatest Detective for Pete’s sake, a title she would probably parade about a tad more if she was him. He was, after all, the only one who had the rights to imprint that on a mug or t-shirt.

She cast the alleyway that led down past Monarch Theatre a fleeting glance. Despite being born and raised in Greenville, North Carolina, she knew of the historic deaths of the Waynes. The Wayne family was widely well-known and acknowledged for their business, philanthropy and millionaire lifestyle. Thomas and Martha Wayne were a rare breed of people in such cruel, harsh times. They were genuine, kind and actually helped others simply because they desired to, not for a sharp reputation or ego boost.

Eve wished that they were her parents.

She was more concerned for their son however. The poor kid _watched_ his parents get murdered in front of him, and he was _eight years old_. No amount of money, presents or ‘they’re in a better place now’ speeches could make up for that.

And there Eve was, her feet having overpowered her expanse logic and as they guided her down the alley they died in. The fact that it was an alley in Gotham should’ve been enough to blare warning bells in her brain, but the fact that it was also the notorious Park Row – nicknamed ‘Crime Alley’ – made her Spidey senses tingle dangerously and her gut churn like an undigested meal.

It got even worse when the scatterings of unintelligible voices began to arise from behind the theatre.

“…. – cut off all ties with you. You’re nowhere near as successful as your old man was, there’s only so much time until someone knocks you from your high perch.” _Male. Deep, but not **too** deep. Estimated age is somewhere in the mid to late twenties. Slight softening of vowels and hardening of consonants, as well as dropping all g’s. Inclines towards a small roll of the Irish accent. Mocking language and pitch, leaning into a scowl. Doesn’t hold the person he was conversing with in high respect, yet tone is confident and authoritative, which means he holds **himself** within a high regard. Formal, with thinly veiled but not outright threats._ Eve’s conclusion: someone within an organised crime syndicate, otherwise known as the mafia. She considered the fact that he had a tinge of an Irish accent and he disrespected someone within an evident hierarchy, which meant he must’ve been at least a semi-important figure within the O’Reilly crime family, the _only_ Irish crime family in Gotham.

“And you think your parents are foolish enough to disrespect and toss aside _my_ services? You’re still juveniles, playing an adult’s game. You know very little in the ways of such delicate business, and would bring your family names to the ground if you went about so rashly.” _Male. Deep, properly deep, yet not raspy from probable sickness or old age. Estimated age is somewhere in the thirties. Has a softly stern way of talking with a blended ‘th’ and slightly drops the d’s, **maybe** Italian. Italian and mafia theory further supported by mentions of bringing the family names to the ground, tossing aside services and ‘delicate business’. The comment from the previous gentleman refers to the current man being ‘nowhere near as successful as your old man’. Father was successful, most likely Italian, and is now dead._ Eve’s conclusion: Sal Maroni, the only Italian mafia boss who within the past ten years had a deceased father.

What was Sal Maroni and a relative of Colin O’Reilly be doing _here_? Eve wondered, but did not know. She faintly recalled spotting a few men in sombre suits towards the back of the theatre room she was in, but she merely skimmed her gaze over them, presuming them to be business men. She should’ve known better, she was a detective _dammit_. The North Carolinian internally cursed at herself, when abruptly, a third voice caught her off guard.

“We’re merely eight years younger than you Maroni, so don’t hide behind the excuse of an age difference. And you certainly aren’t one to lecture us on rash behaviour when _you_ are the one conspiring against our fathers in secrecy. It’s only a matter of time until the other families start treating you like Sionis.” _Female. Young, apparently the same age as the O’Reilly boy. Slight lengthening and accenting of vowels from time to time, teetering in the direction of a Russian accent. Mentioning of ‘our fathers’. Must be related to another crime boss. Age difference between the O’Reilly boy and this woman in comparison to Maroni is apparently eight years, and Maroni is currently thirty five years of age. Oh, and Maroni suspicion is confirmed._  Eve’s conclusion: the woman was Alexandra Markovic, twenty seven year old daughter to Dmitri Markovic, which in turn was the only Russian mob boss in Gotham. The O’Reilly boy from before must’ve been Sean O’Reilly, Colin O’Reilly’s only twenty seven year old son.

Three of Gotham’s biggest crime syndicates were throwing what were most likely not empty threats against one another in the deplorable Crime Alley, the same alley of Martha and Thomas Wayne’s untimely departures from the land of the living. Eve knew this was far from good, and was unquestionably coincidental. What better way to make a mockery of a crime family than to butcher them in the same place of Gotham’s purest couple’s demise? It was no secret that the underbelly of Gotham despised the Waynes with a feverish passion. But to murder major league criminals in the _exact same spot_? That would not only ridicule the crime family, but dishonour the admirable Wayne family name. It was repugnant. An _outrage_.

“Conspiring against your fathers?” Maroni’s voice was disbelieving and borderline venomous, a bitter, repulsive taste residing on his tongue from having uttered the very words. “To do such a thing would stir the established peace between the families. A mob war would arise. No one, not even Sionis or Dent would be arrogant or irrational enough to threaten or advocate such copious amounts of bloodshed.”

Eve pressed her back further into the callous, harsh brick wall. One side was lying, whether that was Maroni or Alexandra and Sean, Eve didn’t know yet. She didn’t have enough context or information. She made a note to herself to read up more on the crime families of the city. It wouldn’t do to stumble upon such a daunting exchange without any means to understanding why there may be tension there in the first place again.

“Don’t play us as fools Maroni,” Sean chastised, no small amount of malign interwoven into his stern tone. “We only came here tonight to offer the courtesy of a warning. If you continue to collude against our fathers, we _will_ inform them of your ill intentions. Then, we’ll see how well the Italian can last against a furious Irishman and Russian.”

Eve physically flinched. In her opinion, they were addressing the possible threat of Maroni’s plotting quite well up until that point, but Sean just _had_ to throw in the last unessential comment that teetered into an almost entirely transparent threat. Eve found it pitiful that most mob men – not all, but most – required an ego stroke through such obscene behaviour and ill-mannered remarks. Disrespecting, cursing and threatening others in that regard is wholeheartedly unnecessary and crude. Sometimes it may be excusable, but the fact that they not only do it, but get a rise out of it? Eve discerned it as revolting.

She didn’t need to peek around the weather beaten corner to know Maroni’s facial response. She felt the animosity rolling off him and stifling the air, making it so hard to inhale that Eve was sure it had turned solid. Air wasn’t supposed to be solid.

“You accuse and disrespect with a pretension that will end your families should you ever take charge.” Eve shuddered. Maroni’s voice was colder than Mr. Freeze, and judging by the sudden thick silence that befell the alley, it had struck a similar effect onto Alexandra and Sean. Eve’s ears were so numb she couldn’t hear her own breath. Was she even breathing at all? She wasn’t sure.

“But it _won’t_ end your families’ legacies. I’ll make sure of that.” Eve froze over. What was Maroni implying—?

_BANG BANG – THUMP, THUMP._

Her heart lodged in her throat. That was the unmistakable crack of two bullets being set free from the barrel of a gun, followed by the unmistakable collapse of two fleshy, heavy masses crumpling onto the unforgiving gravel ground, the sound hardly muffled by the barrier of clothing. Eve could hardly register the thought or process _who_ the two could have possibly been before more erratic gunfire ensued, most likely exchanged between the hired henchmen on either side.

She scuffled ungracefully for better cover, just in case one of them darted around the corner and found her impudent eavesdropping. Eve slid herself between a large, potent dumpster and the rigid brick wall, having positioned her body so the shadows veiled her as much as they could. Only upon close inspection could you have seen her, but with the raucous ruckus having ensnared the attention of all the criminals around the corner, Eve was certain they wouldn’t even spare the marginally larger gap between the dumpster and wall a fleeting glance.

The two minutes were stretched into two eternities before the thumping, jarring sound of expensive shoes striking the ground fled past her, and the gunshots died out with them. She waited at least another five minutes before she warily extracted herself from her hiding spot, her feet once again seizing jurisdiction of her movements as they guided her to where the entire exchange took place.

The buzzing, flickering lamp light above shone upon two limp bodied discarded over one another as if it was the light at the end of their dark tunnel, the light of heaven pulling their souls to rest. That was rather ironic, Eve thought, considering the fact they most likely had a reserved spot in hell for all the crime and corruption they had wrought.

Sean O’Reilly lay over Alexandra Markovic rather perfectly, as if they had been positioned that way for a death scene in a movie. Of course, there were a handful of other bodies strewn across the foreboding alley as collateral damage from the shootout, but Sean and Alexandra were highlighted angelically, despite the almost pitch black blood marring and soaking their clothes. Sean’s stone cold blue eyes stared into the empty nothingness, and Alexandra’s deep amber ones almost seemed black.

Eve remained frozen where she stood. She didn’t know what to, even though there were thousands of the ideas bombarding her every nanosecond. Two things were clear to her though; one side purposefully jumpstarted this blood feud, and now… Gotham was going to pay the price.

_Not if I can help it_ , was the one pure thought that pushed through the mad scramble of her mind, shining like a bright halo and beacon of hope around her head.

_Not if I can help it_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	3. Dangerous Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will be a bit slow for the first couple chapters (character/world building and whatnot) but it does get better! I promise! (Plz)

_“The ones who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones that do,”_ ~Steve Jobs

_NOW – WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 18 th, 2016 – GCPD, GOTHAM CITY_

“For the last time, _no_.”

Eve huffs her exasperation, but can’t find it in her to menacingly glare at the city’s stubborn police Commissioner. He’s a good man with his morals in the right places, which is a rarity in itself to find in this century, let alone Gotham City.

She indelicately plops herself in the fraying leather chair on the other side of Jim Gordon, her perfectly manicured, French tip nails drumming incessantly on the worn arm rest. “Jim, you are fully aware that I wouldn’t partake in such dangerous endeavours that quite obviously fall under the jurisdiction of the police force and even the Batman himself. But I was _there_ Jim. I heard practically _everything_. I’ve been helping you with a handful of your cases covertly for the past four months, and you yourself admitted that my help has made an effective difference in how efficiently and quickly you’ve been closing cases—”

“Those have been low profile cases Miss Winter,” Gordon tiredly persists, stirring the milk into the freshly brewed cups of coffee. “Affairs, petty thefts, arrogant kids trying to make a name for themselves... this is the mob we’re talking about Eve, and not just out of line henchmen, we’re talking the heads of the biggest crime families in Gotham about to break into all out war. Batman himself is going to have his hands full with trying to lessen the damage, on top of keeping the criminally insane in line. I mean no offence when I say this, because I do believe you are an extraordinarily smart woman, but what hopes do you have?”

Eve finds no offence in his query, fully knowing that it is merely an essential and plausible question. She is, after all, one woman. One woman who may be a private detective/investigator, but she’s not a black clad vigilante with hundreds of nifty, high tech toys and cars with several different forms of martial arts under his heavy belt, nor is she an entire police force with legal jurisdiction to arrest and take action against some of the most influential and dangerous men in the city. But she is tactical, and she is smart. Can’t aim a gun for the life of her, but intelligence has proven to prevail over brawn before. People like the Riddler and Scarecrow have shown her that.

“You said it yourself; he’s got his hands full with the Rogue’s gallery as it is. If I can take the mafia off his plate, then I will.” Eve notices Gordon’s mouth part to interject, but she doesn’t allow him the chance. “I’m not going to lie Gordon, I’m terrified out of my wits. I could be sleeping with the fishes before I even dig up the truth about which side truly instigated the mob war. I’ll be damned if I sit by and do nothing though Jim. I will _not_ let innocent people die in the crossfire between a few pissy families who have clearly spent too much time on their high perches to realize that the world does not revolve or bow down to them. I can’t nor won’t do this without your permission, but _please_ consider it before blatantly shooting the idea down.”

Gordon’s deep sea eyes latch onto Eve’s entrancing hazel ones as he passes her the mug of coffee. He doesn’t want to admit it, but a part of him doesn’t want to allow Eve to partake in this case purely because he has grown attached to the woman over the four months they have been collaborating together. It is selfish of him, he realizes, but he has come to care for the thirty four year old North Carolinian. She is a breath of fresh air in the polluted city of Gotham, one of the unique diamonds in an almost infinite rough.

She isn’t corrupt. Tarnished. Selfish. Heck, just the other week when she thought no one was looking Jim spotted her offering a convicted murderer and arsonist a warm cup of coffee. Near ninety percent of this precinct would rather spit in the criminal’s face or even put a bullet in his head for what he’s done, but there she was, sitting next to him and politely conversing with him after making him a cup of Joe with an near angelic smile upon her face. What surprised Jim the most though, was the fact that the man was being just as kind and amiable back, his crooked, stained teeth widening into a hospitable grin.

Jim had hardly seen anything like it.

For years now Batman has instilled fear into the hearts of criminals. He has become more than a man; he has become a force of nature. Though, even though Jim didn’t dare admit it, Batman was one of the primary reasons why more and more crazies and crime kept popping up in the city. He was instilling so much fear that more people rose to try and battle it off. He isn’t a sign of hope, but he’s a hero that this city deserves.

Eve works differently.

She uses compassion. Kindness. Faith. Faith that some people in this city will at least improve their ways in the slightest. Faith that this city is still capable of being saved. She is humane to the inhumane, something that no one, not even Batman, is.

Jim would sometimes compare the two whenever he finds himself a spare moment. One works with fear and force, while the other with love and faith. Batman may get more done, but Eve’s way is still honourable. Not something that this city will ever allow to deter it from its path of crime, but nonetheless honourable. Gordon guesses that Eve would rather be loved than feared, while Batman is completely indifferent towards how he gets things done, as long as he _gets things done_.

And in that moment, as Jim ponders over all of these thoughts while staring at the raven haired woman, he has a sudden epiphany. All those years ago, he allowed Batman the chance to clean up this city, and while the Dark Knight has saved the city more times than he can count, he hasn’t _actually_ saved this city as a whole. He let the Dark Knight have his chance and try to save the city, so why couldn’t he let Eve?

Jim pulls away the now tepid caffeine from his mouth, the drink having dampened his slightly greying moustache. Rubbing his temples soothingly with his spare hand, he rests against his desk in front of Eve and says “Very well, _but_ ,” he hastens to add on before Eve’s face lights up too much “as soon as you start to get too deep into it, I’m pulling you out. And, should you close the case and miraculously find a way to stop this blood war between the crime families, you will not _personally_ take action against them. If you have a plan, great. But remember that _we’re_ the police force, and _you_ are only a private detective.”

Jim’s terms and conditions do nothing to dampen Eve’s mood. Her wavy, raven, layered bob of hair bounces up and down as she stands from her chair excitedly, an almost childlike glee emanating from her body. “I cannot express my gratitude enough Jim, really. I won’t let you down, that I can promise.”

“Mm hmm,” he hums, cracking a small grin when she bestows him a brief hug before downing the rest of her coffee and sliding on her iconic knee length white overcoat. She doesn’t button it up, but allows it to comfortably hang open to reveal her emerald green blouse. “It’s already been a week since the incident, which means the families have most likely started choosing sides. I’ll start off with deciphering which families are collaborating with each other,” she announces to him, gathering her long strap, black handbag and nimbly sliding over her shoulder. “Obviously O’Reilly and Markovic are teaming up against Maroni, but that still leaves Falcone and _maybe_ Two Face and Sionis. From what I’ve read about them, they’re not really classified into crime families, but are let in on deals and meetings from time to time.”

“Sionis used to be, but since the Joker knocked him off his throne several years ago, he’s come back and rebuilt his empire as an impulsive and even more conceited man. The other families find him crude and ruthless because he doesn’t even try to be polite to them anymore, _and_ he has a knack for stirring trouble against people like the Joker and Dent,” Jim elaborates, feeding Eve all the information he can without over stepping his boundaries of revealing too much classified information to a civilian. “Dent however, is rude and sadistic, but he has enough common courtesy to be formal and at least semi-polite to the other families. He also generally doesn’t purposefully provoke petty feuds amongst them or the criminally insane, mainly because he seems to fall under both categories.”

“Do you have any idea which family he’s closest to?” Eve inquires, prodding Jim’s brain for as much information as she can.

The Commissioner has to withhold a sigh. He’s already breaking all the rules by allowing her to aid in classified cases, and _now_ he’s bestowing her with knowledge about high class criminals that have eyes and ears in every corner of this city. He’s practically signing off her death wish and his resignation papers at the same time. He made a decision though, and being a man of his word, Jim refuses to go back on it. “Markovic. Even though Dent is certifiably more insane than Dmitri Markovic, Markovic’s common moniker is ‘Mad Dog’. Dmitri’s great grandfather Ruslan Markovic betrothed the mob boss Nicholas Giovanni’s only daughter around eighty or so years ago, and then proceeded to assassinate all of his Italian brother-in-laws while Giovanni was on his death bed. By the time old man Giovanni kicked the can, Ruslan was the only heir to the Giovanni crime family, now known as the Markovic crime family.”

Eve – who has been recording Gordon’s every word with her phone from the get-go – doesn’t stop there, sticking her nose into the business of the mafia history and alliances even further. “Similar circumstances for the O’Reilly crime family as well I presume? After all, all crime families globally ascended from the Sicilian crime syndicate from Sicily, Italy. So Irish and Russian mobs in America usually come to power under those kinds of circumstances.”

Gordon nods, folding his arms over his chest intently. “Yes, but Colin O’Reilly’s father didn’t purposefully go around murdering all other heirs to the Castellano family. Roberto Castellano turned out to be infertile, so he couldn’t have any genetic heirs to take over the family for him once he passed on. He only adopted kids who were either Italian or had Italian ancestry. In the end, all four of his adopted boys tried to off him _and_ each other for the chance to be the head of the family. Roberto barely batted an eye when he killed them off, passing down the family business to his only trusted son in law, Colin’s father, Kenneth O’Reilly.”

“Okay, what about the Falcones and the Maronis? What can you tell me about their context?”

“They’re the two most infamous and powerful mobs in the entire city,” Gordon explains tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to will off his fatigue. “Their ancestral roots go all the way back to when Gotham was first erected. Carmine Falcone is the most influential and prosperous criminal in the city, although Two Face’s fortune rivals his pretty well. The other families do anything in their power to not offend Falcone in any way, because there isn’t another family – or rogue, for that matter – in this city who can rival him in numbers or political, media and legal ties. He was bitter rivals with Luigi Maroni – Sal Maroni’s father – but unfortunately gets along with Sal quite well, even at his current age of sixty nine. Sal never got along with his old man, and even though it’s not proven, sources say he killed Luigi before the cancer took to him. Sal Maroni is relatively a sane, competent man, which is why it’s a shock that he would instigate such a blood bath between the families.”

In that moment, Eve begins to reminiscent over the event from a week ago. Both sides seemed so sure what they were speaking was nothing but the truth. Perhaps whoever fed Alexandra and Sean the information about Maroni fabricated the intelligence because they had a personal vendetta against the Maronis? Eve is merely formulating theories here, so she shouldn’t jump to conclusions just yet, especially considering how early in the investigation it is. “Lastly, may I ask about Sionis and Dent? You mentioned before their relationships with the other families, but what about the relationship with each other? Is it completely gone to hell or is it just shaky?” Eve figures that if they generally get along well, they would most likely team up with each other against Maroni, because judging by the evidence before her already; Dent will be collaborating with Markovic and O’Reilly.

“No two human beings hate each other more than they do,” Jim bluntly says, his age lines crinkling prominently as his mouth thins into a fine line. “Well, besides Joker and Batman. As I said before, they’re both ruthless, sadistic and crude. Not to mention obviously insane, even though only one of them is certifiably so. They’ll most likely use this war to viciously strike against each other, only paying light attention to the families they’re allied with out of courtesy. Although, Maroni _was_ the one to disfigure Dent’s face with the acid, and Dent _did_ persecute _a lot_ of Falcone and Maroni’s men when he was DA, so those two have never really been buddy buddy with him either.”

Drinking in all this information about the criminals like a sponge would water, Evangeline offers Jim a firm nod that communicates ‘we’re done here’. “Thanks Jim,” Eve praises, flicking off her phone and gracefully pocketing it. “I think that’s all I need for now. Do you mind sending me everything you have on who works for each family; their legal, political and media ties; each family member and anything within your records of them that’s even remotely notable? I know I’m asking a lot, but I just want to figure this entire enigma out.”

Gordon chuckles, the sound hearty yet soft. “Being curious winds up resulting in your body in a body bag within the morgue under a week in this city. Curiosity killed the cat Eve.”

“Cats have nine lives, Catwoman has proven that,” Eve dusts off, hand resting on the rusty, brass door knob. “And I’ve got seven left, so what’s there to worry about?”

***

“You called.”

Jim doesn’t jolt as much as he used to, but that doesn’t mean he’s no longer surprised by the Dark Knight’s abrupt materialisation. _Every damn time_ , Jim huffs, stiffly pushing off against the jagged concrete wall on top of the GCPD. He ambles on up to the light blaring the ‘bat signal’, taking his time turning it off as he drowsily responds “Remember that woman I mentioned a few months back? The one who’s been privately helping me with a few low-key cases?”

“Evangeline Winter?” The Dark Knight prompts in his gravelly, baritone voice. Gordon was reluctant in disclosing her identity when Batman asked who had been improving the efficiency in his less life-threatening cases, but even though Jim remained loyal to her, Batman figured out her identity nonetheless. But he only began to show more interest in her once the criminals started getting suspicious of how the GCPD is _actually_ doing its job _well_.

She’s nothing special, Batman concludes, by any normal standards anyway. Evangeline is one of the last people an infamous criminal would suspect to dismantle and pick apart their crime or plan. _That’s_ what makes her dangerous. Not special, but dangerous.

“Yeah, her.” Gordon’s tone no longer holds any surprise when he replies to something the Dark Knight says that he shouldn’t otherwise know of. Unpredictability became predictable long ago. “She was there at Markovic’s daughter and O’Reilly’s son’s shoot out against Maroni last week. It’s _her_ I managed to get the story from, but now she won’t let it go. She’s hell-bent on solving the entire damn thing. Stubborn like you are.”

“What do you want me to do? Convince her not to take the case?” He barely moves a millimetre when he talks; even his cape is eerily still despite the light draft on the rooftop.

“No, there’s no way of deterring her from it. I was hoping you would just keep an eye on her. I know you’re busy with the rest of the city, but she’s still new to Gotham, and trying to tackle this city’s most powerful and dangerous families may prove to be a bit much, even for her,” Gordon worries, eyes not veering from the towering, formidable shadow lurking in front of him.

“It’s not wise allowing her to continue Jim,” Batman warns, his voice impossibly dropping several more tones into a low, warning bass. “Gotham’s mobs will chew her up and spit her out in a matter of a week. She’s not Gotham material.”

“Exactly, she’s not Gotham material,” Jim agrees, but oddly veers in a different direction that Batman was expecting. “Which is why I think she should give the case a shot. Everyone in this city thinks and operates on the same level, _especially_ the criminals. But she’s got an entirely different mindset from all of them, _and_ us. She’s the unexpected wrench in their works, _our_ wild card. I think.... I think she can do it.”

Batman pauses, considering the situation before him. Jim has a good judgment, a good gut instinct. The Dark Knight knows that Jim can count the number of people he trusts on one hand, and it seems that Miss Winter has managed to work her way to being one of those fingers. Jim himself is one of the only people Batman truly trusts, so despite going against his own better judgment, the Dark Knight’s shoulders straighten a couple centimetres in submission. “I’ll check in on her soon, see how she’s coming along.”

Jim’s lips twitch up in a relieved smile. He shakes his head and casts his gaze to the floor in gratitude, glancing back up and saying “Thanks.” By the time he does so though, he finds himself to be alone on the rooftop, his only company being the soft howl of the wind and the imposing bat signal next to him.

_Yep_ , Jim grumbles to himself, but not grumpily. _Every damn time._

***

Eve exasperatedly blows a stray strand of her short raven hair from her face, red flannel sleeves rolled up past her elbows with petite, pale hands securely placed on her hips as she scrutinises the bulletin board with evidence and her own scrawled notes pinned on it. “Not even forty eight hours in on the _official_ investigation and I’m already going mad from how many henchmen and family members are in each mob. Bec, I’m calling it. You’re gonna have to come over and give me a full frontal psyche check.”

A disfigured scoff can be heard from Eve’s phone positioned on the polished oak table to the left, the loudspeaker speaking _“I don’t need to drive to Gotham to tell you you’re crazy. Just go ahead and admit yourself into Arkham while you’re still ahead.”_

“They’ve got enough crazy there as it is,” Eve waves her friend off, delicately altering a string connecting one of Maroni’s top lieutenants, Andy, to the unknown informant that briefed Alexandra and Sean about Maroni’s supposed conspiring against Markovic and O’Reilly. “Perhaps I’ll just drive back to Greenville and you can admit me to a mental hospital there.”

_“So long as you don’t bring Joker or Zsasz in the boot with you, then feel free,”_ Eve’s high school friend Rebecca Daniels facetiously consents.

Rebecca is Eve’s _only_ close friend. After graduating high school, Eve drifted from all her teenage companions, and sadly enough, they let her. The only person who quite literally gripped her tight and ‘politely’ informed her that Eve was never losing her, was Rebecca Daniels.

With her golden halo of hair and honey brown eyes, Rebecca Daniels gave away the deceiving impression that she is nothing but an angel. Her sun-kissed skin and short stature made her a typical American girl that you would quite easily find in plenty of movies, books and TV shows. However, atop her hooked nose sat a pair of thick rimmed reading glasses, which gave off an intelligent albeit shy impression, and that slightly put off most people’s expectations.

Rebecca, however, is none of that.

She’s a spitfire with a mouth that would make a sailor blush. She’s intelligent – incredibly so, if you counted the four degrees in psychology and PhD in chemistry – and a tad too brutally honest for most people’s liking. Eve sees past all that, and actually quite enjoys someone with such a candour personality. It’s refreshing.

“Honey, if anything _I_ would be in the boot – dead – and _they_ would be the ones driving down to say hello,” Eve muses, deciding to step away from the board, collect her phone and grant herself a well-deserved lunch break.

She waltzes out of her study and into the little living room, the open floor plan combining the room with the kitchen. While the apartment is small and compact, it’s in reasonably good shape, not overly pricey and has a modern flare in the architecture. The furniture in the living room is scarce, bar the black timber coffee table, the average sized plasma screen perfectly mounted on the soft white wall, the outstanding timber bookshelf holding all of Eve’s favourite novels and the white leather loveseat with its matching lounge resting beside it.

_“I would shove several sticks of C4 down their fucking throats before they even got the damn chance,”_ Bec menacingly scowls whilst Eve strolls through the living room and into the mini kitchen, earning an entertained smile on Eve’s behalf.

“And the people of Gotham would make a God out of you for it,” Eve chuckles, gracefully side stepping the kitchen’s island counter and smoothly pulling out the appropriate tools and ingredients for scrambled eggs on toast with parsley and tomatoes.

A small, nearly inaudible hum can be heard over the line, the phone now tenderly placed on top of the sleek microwave. _“Got any theories yet?”_

“Several,” Eve pipes in absentmindedly, expertly cracking the eggs straight into the frying pan, adding a splash of full cream milk to the mix. “But a couple stand out to me.”

_“Do tell.”_

“Well my first theory is that it was sabotage against either Maroni or O’Reilly and Markovic,” the private investigator hypothesizes, tactfully slicing the bright, red tomatoes. “Whoever informed Sean and Alexandra of the speculation could have a personal vendetta against one of the families, or all of them, hence their desire to jumpstart a cut-throat war between them all. That, or someone _else_ has a personal vendetta against the families and had ties within each one so they could therefore feed each family false information, once again resulting in the catastrophic blood feud.”

_“And your other favoured theory?”_

Eve throws the parsley and tomatoes into the pan, stirring the jumbled mix with the blended egg and milk. “Alexandra and Sean – in all their juvenile arrogance – _purposefully_ put Maroni in a tough situation, fabricating a rumour which their fathers would believe them for over Maroni, just so they could get Maroni out of the picture. Obviously, though, despite achieving what they wanted, they didn’t anticipate such a fatal reaction from him in response.”

A small pause hangs in the air between them, Bec intently mulling over her best friend’s speculations. _“You don’t seem as confident with your second theory.”_

Eve exhaustedly sighs, sliding the two slices of toast into the toaster. “I’ve had nine days to think over all this Bec, and that second theory.... I feel as if I may be on the right track, but something about it just doesn’t add up. Even amongst all of Sean’s and Alexandra’s accusations, he was _winning_. He was _winning_ , and he _knew it_. Why shoot them? By shooting them, he surrendered into their desperate scheme. Mob men are all about money, sex and power. So why would he give the power to _them_?”

_“Perhaps he secretly desired the war as well?”_ Rebecca openly suggests, followed by the sounds of something fragile indelicately shattering and a few heated profanities regarding the Holy Lord and the apocalypse. _“You did say Gotham’s mob men are crazy,”_ she calmly finishes off, whole heartedly neglecting whatever transpired on her side of the line.

“Crazy... crazy...” Eve mumbles hypnotically, momentarily neglecting the scrambled eggs sizzling and spitting in the frying pan. “What if… _one_ of them was mentally unstable?”

“ _Wouldn’t be much of a shock._ ”

“It would make perfect sense,” she utters over her old friend’s satirical comment, absent-mindedly prodding at the eggs whilst staring off dazedly. “Especially if it was Maroni. The stress of the business combined with the influences he’s encompassed by is enough to render the human psyche vulnerable. If his mental stability was compromised, then he would be otherwise apathetic towards the repercussions of his actions. Even with his environment however, such a condition would’ve had to be triggered by something, or it would have to be a hereditary gene. I should probably inquire of Gordon the Maroni family’s health records, and then go digging around for more information before I jump to this conclusion—”

_“What about his old man?”_

Eve flicks the stove off, allowing the cooked eggs, tomatoes and parsley to pleasantly simmer for a while longer. “Sal’s old man? You mean Luigi Maroni? His father?” She asks as a confirmation, twisting the salt and pepper shakers and inattentively watching as they drift like black and white snowflakes onto the cooked meal below. “He didn’t have a good relationship with him from what I can gather. Wasn’t too emotionally partial to his passing, which is peculiar in itself. Italians are generally all about family.”

_“Is it possible he could’ve cared more than he let on?”_ Bec helpfully probes. _“Could his passing have affected Sal more than anyone else cares to realize?”_

“I’m entertaining the possibility,” Eve acknowledges, lightly tossing the golden coloured slices of toast onto the ivory white, ceramic plate. “But it _has_ only been nine days, and out of those nine days, I’ve only been _officially_ investigating for two of them. Got Jim’s permission on Wednesday.”

Evangeline can sense the all-knowing grin playing at her friend’s lips over the line. _“I know you Angie. You most likely went out and frequented a mob restaurant or bar sometime on Sunday in hopes of picking up some gossip.”_

“It was Saturday, actually,” Eve flippantly defends herself, skilfully using the spatula to slide the eggs onto the caramel coloured toast. “Saturdays are the big nights in Gotham, not just for the mobs and rogues, but for Batman as well. Knowing Jim, he most likely informed the vigilante to keep a watchful eye on me. So I’m trying to plan most of my risky investigations on Saturdays or Fridays, while people like the Joker are keeping him continuously preoccupied.”

_“You should check your apartment for bugs,”_ Rebecca suggests. _“He may have them planted everywhere.”_

Eve gently places her plate on the kitchen island bench, soundlessly seating herself on one of the lanky stools. “I check every night. They give off a unique electromagnetic frequency. I just got to emit my own disruptive frequency that’s not powerful enough to interfere with my other electronic devices, but strong enough to give his bugs a power shortage. Already found two.”

_“Outsmarting the world’s greatest detective are we Angie?”_ Bec only partially teases. _“He better watch out, a few more higher up cases and you may swipe the title.”_

Eve scoffs, her stainless steel knife and fork dissecting the scrambled eggs on toast. “That’ll be the day.”

For a short while, Eve eats in a welcome silence, paying no mind to the additional voice on the other end of the phone call who is clearly addressing her best friend. A few more heated profanities accompany the incoherent conversation, before Bec’s overly displeased tone returns. _“Gotta go Ange, break’s over. Call me when you can though, yeah?”_

“Mm hmm,” Eve manages through a mouthful of eggs, her cheeks akin to a chipmunk’s after they’ve ungracefully stuffed their mouth with acorns.

_“Later Ange.”_

“Mmm.”

_Click_.

The rest of the meal is spent undisturbed, but by the end of it, as Eve is smoothly cleaning up the dishes, she begins to internally talk to herself. _I should really buy a cook book_ , she muses, the perky suds dancing over the white ceramic dish. _I can only eat scrambled eggs on toast so many times before it wears out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	4. Thin Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment thoughts at anytime! Especially if a character is too OOC or Mary-Sue. Always appreciate the feedback :)

_“The world suffers a lot. Not because of the violence of bad people, but because of the silence of good people.”_ ~Napoleon

Eve swiftly leaps down with the poise of a gazelle from where she stood on the dumpster, having set up the last of her trusty security footage. All over town, she spent the last three long days wiring up cameras and microphones outside any mob owned business she knew of that was also safe enough to do so. From every safe house, bar and business front to every restaurant, casino and dock on record.

She’s never been one for self-appraisal, but Eve can’t repress the self-satisfied flare that surges through her at the current moment.

It’s an adrenaline rush working such a treacherous case, she can’t deny that. She’s not in it for an adrenalin fix though, or for the rush of admiration and appreciation she could possibly receive if her identity and involvement was brought to light. No, the bigger reason she’s partaking in this jeopardous endeavour is for the safety of those who don’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire. A smaller part of her, a selfish part of her, may be doing it out of her own damn curiosity, but that’s all that it is. Small.

Pulling the familiar fabric of her trench coat sleeve up, she analyses her wrist, checking the time on her white and gold Michael Kors watch. 1:24am. _It’s that late?_ She rhetorically asks herself, blinking back her bewilderment at how the time flew. It was worth it in her opinion, that _was_ the final camera after all.

Eve manages to hail a taxi before the daunting, edgy man with premature yellow teeth who was a few meters off decidedly gets too close. And before the raucous gang of typical Gotham street thugs takes too much of an interest in her.

By the time she returns to her apartment, it’s near two o’clock. _Brains need sleep;_ she firmly chastises herself as she slides the rusty, worn key into her threadbare door. _This case will be the death of you Evangeline Mendax Winter._

She felt it the moment she walked in that front door.

Eve soundlessly closes the door behind her, refusing to even budge towards the light switch. Her entire apartment is bathed in shadows, the few run of the mill windows towards the back of the main room sucking all the lights the city offers and trying to spread them amongst the darkness. Eve knows her apartment. She knows every crack, crevasse, book, dust ball, splinter and corner down to the last millimetre. She knows how the shadows cast over the rooms like a tsunami of darkness. She knows how the very air sits, swarms and convulses in every damn room.

So she knew, the moment she walked in that front door, that something was off.

Her back presses into her own front door, similar to how it was twelve days ago in that monumental alleyway. Her eyes devour every inch of the room, surveying for the probable threat. Before she’s even permitted a chance to deduct a conclusion or a plan of action, it speaks.

“Miss Winter.”

Instead of jumping up to her throat, Eve’s heart plummets several stories downwards to the ground floor, her breath along with it. She didn’t see him at first, but _now_ he’s unmistakeable. Even the air stills in his presence. The imposing, looming wall of darkness that manoeuvres to stand more prominently in what little light there is, creating a silhouette of the shape. He looks like the Grim Reaper, and besides the simple movement to make himself more noticeable, he doesn’t move an inch. Eve can’t even see him _breathing_.

“I had a feeling Jim let you off your leash to spy on me,” Eve barely manages to push out, miraculously subduing the initial quiver in her tone. “Here to warn me how dangerous this truly is? Or did you stop by for a cup of tea?”

He still doesn’t move. “Do me a favour and lose the sense of humour.”

“Do this entire city a favour and buy one. You evidently have enough money to do so.” She meant it as a playful joke, yet she still prays that he took it as one.

“You attempt to use either kindness or humour upon first meeting someone,” his impossibly low voice states. “As a means of gauging their initial personality, reaction and possible mannerisms. You buy yourself time to read their body, posture, speech pattern, tone, attire and eyes as if they were their own walking auto-biography. From then on out, you use that information to best determine how to act around them and treat them, as well as the appropriate language to use and what to address them by.”

Eve appears strangely unfazed by this stage, simply slipping her petite hands into her white coat pockets. “You attempt to use surprise and intimidation upon first meeting someone, and even after your first meeting, you continue to use the same method as a means of reminding them who you are.” Eve courageously takes a step forward, the sound of her brown, heeled ankle boots _clacking_ against the flooring, cracking through the air.

“When you surprise someone from your abrupt presence, you determine their current emotional and mental state by the vulnerability of the ‘caught off guard’ moment. If they’re on edge and jumpy by your materialisation, you know they’re up to something. If they’re calm and collected, you know they were expecting you. You remain in the shadows even after announcing your presence, only extracting yourself from them when you sense the other person challenging you or deem the situation even the slightest bit threatening as a way of further promoting your intimidation technique. Once you’ve adjudicated that the person doesn’t really pose a threat, you slacken, just in the slightest.”

Just as Eve foretold, the Batman’s shoulders droop a couple unseen centimetres. And, if Eve could see in the dark, she would’ve caught onto the fact that his lips twitched up for a few eternal milliseconds. “So you know that – judging by your original reaction – _I_ know that you’re up to something, that you’ve _done_ something.”

Eve remains impassive, refusing to allow him any more chances to deduce her physically. “I’m a private investigator. I’m _investigating_. Of course I’m up to something.”

“These aren’t nice people Miss Winter,” Batman gravelly reminds her, and when he takes a silent step forward – more like a glide really – Eve has to stop herself from taking one back. “They won’t all smile and thank you should you offer them a cup of steaming coffee.”

_How does he know about that...?_ She pauses. _Gordon_.

“You don’t think I know that?” Evangeline perplexedly asks. “But I’m stopping this mob war before it happens, Mr Knight. And I don’t need to trade in my morals and who I am to do so. My father always asked me when I was a kid; _Are you strong enough to stand up to the inhumane? Or humane enough to offer them kindness?_ You’re the strong one here Mr Knight, so all I can be is the humane one, the _only_ humane one that appears to be in this city.”

Once again, she didn’t mean it as an insult or an ego boost on her behalf, but from what Eve has seen and heard from this city, _no one_ treats the criminals as if they were proper human beings with their human rights and human nature. Even the psychiatrists at Arkham sounded as if they didn’t truly regard their patients as people, as equals. _Everyone_ is equal to Eve, and even if they don’t bestow you with the respect you deserve, they nonetheless should be treated with kindness and like actual people.

Lucky for her, the Dark Knight knew what she meant.

“There’s a reason people like you aren’t found in this city,” Batman continues to debate, but Eve detects the _slightest hint_ of gradual acquiescence weaving into his tone. “They die out. They’re corrupted, tainted by the city’s pessimism and brutality. Even the strongest of them fall prey to criminal underworld.” There it was. The meaning behind it all. Eve could see it, she could _feel it._ The unspoken insinuation of this city’s once White Knight hung in the air – Harvey Dent. But not just Harvey, other good people have fallen victim to the tempting bad side of the law. Harleen Quinzel. Victor Fries. Pamela Isley. Good people with good intentions, all snapped by the figurative ‘dark side’.

Eve refused to be one of them. Her morals and ethics are what define her, what make her _her_. No one, not this city, its cops, its vigilantes or it’s so called ‘super criminals’ were going to take that away from her. _Even the strongest of them fall prey to the criminal underworld_ he had said. Eve’s mouth curves up, but it isn’t an act of arrogance. It’s a sign of assurance. “I already told you, I’m not the strong one.”

The Dark Knight looks at her. _Really_ looks at her. He stands by his previous assumption – that she’s dangerous, not special – but now, having met her, he can personally identify a buried spark that loiters within her. A spark the rest of the people in this city fail to possess. A spark of hope. But it’s not just limited to that, it’s so much more. It’s intellect. It’s faith. It’s determination. It’s tactics. It’s optimism. It’s compassion. It’s _humanity_. Even in his line of work, Batman can’t afford half of the qualities her spark maintains.

He has to admit, although falteringly, she seems somewhat capable of getting the job done.

Against his initial intentions, the Dark Knight angles his body ever so slightly, allowing the stolen light from the city outside to frame half of his foreboding structure. Only half. The light treads around him in a way that almost resembles caution, or fear, as if it is afraid that one wrong move would grant it a severe punishment by the Dark Knight’s hand. Eve knew that the reputation of the Batman preceded him from the moment she lay her eyes on him, and even prior to this encounter she referred to him as a force of nature. But here she is, for the first time _truly_ understanding the meaning behind those words. Nature almost bended to his will, his presence. Nature, dark, light… it is all his army, and he is its commander. Not the top dog, but an intimidator utilized by the top dog; justice.

“Don’t let your confidence turn into arrogance,” he warns, words permanently ringing in the air. “Many before you have, and many before you have fallen.”

Eve purses her rosy lips, sharp chin marginally jutted upwards as she scrutinises him under her observant gaze. “Have you heard of the doting nickname Commissioner Gordon has labelled me with?” When he remains silent, Eve continues. “Angel. That’s what he calls me, from time to time. Evangeline ‘Angel’ Winter. I personally don’t believe I do the name justice, but he thinks otherwise. Angels are messengers and warriors of God, and I am neither of those. However, over the course of biblical history, there have been a select few who have fallen from grace, Lucifer – the devil – included.” She takes another tentative step forward, less than a meter away from him now. “I will _not_ be one of them. You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. I would sooner die with my morals, than trade them in for my ambition or arrogance.”

“You say that now, but adversities change people,” he challenges, taking his own step forward. “All it takes is one moment, one bad day. People only change once, and you have yet to experience that. And when you do, what you come out as is what I’m worrying about.”

Eve’s gaze turns razor sharp. “Who says I _haven’t_ already changed?”

“Just be careful,” he relents, part of him aware that he has sparked a flicker of doubt within her that she is still oblivious to. He doesn’t want her to doubt her capabilities, but too much self-assurance in this city never bodes well. The Knight just wants her to be wary. “You’re not from here; you haven’t seen what this city is capable of doing to the people in it.”

“I _will_ be careful,” she tenderly and understandingly reassures, knowing that Gotham’s black clad vigilante is merely looking out for her. “On one condition.”

This piques Batman’s attention. “And what is that?”

Eve huffs, almost exasperatedly. “Stop putting bloody bugs in my apartment, please.”

Once again, if Evangeline Winter possessed the ability of night vision, she would’ve perceived the uncharacteristic and entirely unpredictable twitch of Batman’s lips. Soundlessly, he glides across the floor like a Reaper adorned with its dark cloak, the Dark Knight’s cape trailing behind him obediently. He manoeuvres to the illuminated windows, only pausing momentarily to cast Eve a sideways glance over his broad shoulders. “Take care of yourself Miss Winter.”

She sighs, suddenly finding her scratched and beaten boots rather interesting. “Only if you do.”

When she glimpses up, he’s gone.

***

Eve stares unblinkingly at the buzzing, hypnotic security footage screens as she fiddles with the overly plain silver cross around her neck, her expression devoid of anything and everything bar one obvious sign; fatigue.

_If I sleep, I may miss something,_ she relentlessly contends with herself, well aware that this case is progressively consuming her like a virus from within. _How long ago did the notorious Dark Knight drop by?_ She dazedly pondered. _Two days, six days... or was it only nine hours?_ The more she contemplates, the more frustrated she becomes with herself.

Rebecca once commented that watching Eve become irksome or irate was thoroughly entertaining. Bec, apparently, couldn’t regard her high school companion seriously when she did. Eve recollects Bec explaining that _‘You’re too nice Eve. You try to look angry, but you just look like a kitten whose ball of yarn has been confiscated. Face it Eve, you can’t maintain a truly bitter expression for more than eight milliseconds.’_

_‘I can be angry,’_ Eve had defensively bristled, but it was more like a cute pout. _‘And scary.’_

Bec had laughed. _‘Yeah, and I can give up smoking any day I want.’_

In spite of not desiring to admit it, Eve knows the Batman had effectively succeeded in his visitation. There was a tiny, near inconceivable seed of doubt planted within the soil of her mind. Each new thought and logical reasoning of what could become of her during this investigation, is like another drop of water being fed to the soil, nourishing the seed of doubt. But Eve couldn’t let it grow into something that could obstruct or compromise her mission, her case. She has never failed or given up on a case before, and she sure as hell isn’t going to start now.

Gotham is truly something to be frightful of, though. One turn down a bad street could result in a beaten, mugged, raped or dead body being discovered the next morning. There is no censor on what transpires within this metropolitan, no moral code. Even thieves tend to have honour amongst them, yet the common populace of criminals in this city scarcely have a scrap of it.

_It’s mid-day,_ Eve tries to coerce herself from her disarrayed office. _Go get some lunch out for once. Air. You need air._

Against her better judgement to not abandon the security tapes without someone to monitor them, Eve collects her iconic white coat and swiftly slides out the door.

It’s astounding how different Gotham is during the day. All the shadows and brutality of the Gotham criminal underworld have curled in on themselves, hissing like vampires at the light that drowns the streets of the city. Even with the imperious radiance of the sun however, the cold still manages to pierce and nip away at each passer-by, and the snow that buries every inch of concrete and grass it can displays no signs of budging.

Eve ambles around aimlessly for a while, drinking in the sights and the sun that’s offered to her. Upon spotting a neat, rustic little cafe tucked away almost covertly down a fairly quiet street, Eve wanders towards it and welcomes herself inside.

Not too boisterous, not too placid. That’s how Eve likes it. She orders her golden toasted banana bread with lukewarm camomile tea – a splash of honey added to the mix – and takes a seat in one of the austere chairs facing the front door, observing as people come and go. Most would think that Eve struck a metaphorical gold mine uncovering such a place within Gotham; reticent, peaceful, not enervated and has quality food and drink. Yet, it wasn’t a coincidence that she stumbled upon it. She meant to come here. Why? Because _this_ particular cafe is run on a protection racket, a protection racket enforced by none other than the infamous Harvey Dent.

Eve had done her research prior to her visit. This street is on the very edge of O’Reilly’s territory, and from what she can piece together after having an amicable, pleasant conversation with the barista and cashier up front, Maroni had attempted to put up a protection racket of his own merely for the satisfaction to spite O’Reilly and encroach his turf. Power plays, as always.

Evidently, Two Face stepped up because he isn’t shy of brashly fomenting the other families’ ire should they display the act of arrogance first. Eve has to pity the proprietor of the alleviating café, as well as the other business owners on the street – being at the beck and whim of such a largely notorious and certifiably _insane_ criminal can’t possibly be favourable for one’s health or finance.

Much to Eve’s disliking, the closer it nears to one o’clock, the more crowded and raucous the cafe begins to grow. For one fleeting moment, she ruminates the idea of returning to her disorganised apartment, and then abruptly discards the idea just as quickly as it came. She requires more time spent out in public, _socialising_. She doesn’t need any companions to socialise _with_ , but to go to the effort of traipsing around the mall or treating herself to a delectable meal is well enough.

“Is this seat taken?”

Eve has to reign in her startled expression, whipping her head in the direction of and regarding the source of the intrusive voice. “Hmm?”

Her eyes devour the appearances of the three gentlemen politely awaiting her response. _Immaculately presented suits. Expensive, definitely expensive. A Rolex wrist watch even seems to be peeking out from the blonde one’s sleeve. Practiced, firm postures. The brunette’s especially. He could possibly possess a few years of military training under his belt. Suit jackets are all puffed out **marginally** more than necessary, which when paired with the fact that we’re in a mob-rogue owned cafe, most likely implies that handguns are veiled behind them._ _Mob men,_ **_obviously_**. _Despite the cafe indirectly belonging to Two Face, these men could still possibly work for O’Reilly or Markovic. Maroni, Black Mask and Falcone lackeys wouldn’t harbour the audacity to frequent a rival’s cafe in delicate times such as these, so that rules them out at options._ _Other lower families or gangs aren’t remarkable or powerful enough to be figuratively ‘sitting with the big boys’, which therefore results in a selection of three._ Eve tries to boil it down from the three options left presented to her.

Markovic, O’Reilly and Dent. It isn’t uncommon for allying families to permit each other’s henchmen in each other’s bars, casinos and restaurants. Eve decides however, that the three towering criminals before her belong to Two Face. Simply an educated speculation based on the snobbish behaviour usually displayed by the other families when regarding the hiring of henchmen, especially the Italian families. And in spite of his ruthlessness and sadistic ways, Eve was stunned upon reading Gordon’s personal jottings on how Dent is more lenient with the ethnicity of his men. _It appears at least **one** mob man is capable of surpassing the ethnic barrier and employing workers based on skill,_ Eve had commented after reading the near illegible notes left by the police Commissioner.

The sound of a throat being cleared shatters her thoughts like glass.

Eve blinks up at the men again, her mouth indecisive in whether it wishes to remain ajar or shut firmly closed. Eventually, Eve regains jurisdiction of her jaw and stammers “Sorry, yes. I mean, no, it isn’t taken. You may sit, if you wish.”

The three men chuckle. Eve shudders. “Thank you,” the dark skinned criminal with the single pierced right ear praises. His arms are as thick as tree trunks, and his teeth are whiter than a toothpaste model’s. He conveys the initial impression of amiability Eve concurs, but criminals – specifically mafia members – maintain a living out of deception. This has always been Eve’s fatal flaw; jumping to conclusions. She realizes she needs to analyse more, yet when regarding unanswered questions, Eve becomes atypically impatient and yearns to identify the answer.

“You new to the area?” He continues, his intimidating colleagues heuristic of Evangeline’s answer as well. “This place just doesn’t usually get many customers outside its repertoire of regulars,” the man justifies his blatant curiosity, blinding white teeth bared back into a semblance of a smile.

Eve deliberates how much information she can fabricate about herself without rousing their suspicion. Mob men procure the eyes of a hawk for lies and deceit the moment they enter the world of organised crime, so Eve would prefer to be as honest as she can. Granted, the situation and nature of her current case doesn’t enable a large amount of honesty from her at the moment, should it later be used against her, but that doesn’t require her to lie about _everything_. As mentioned before; Eve would prefer to be as honest as she can.

So after much deliberation, she settles for “Yes, actually. In fact, I’m new to Gotham as whole.”

The blonde haired man quirks an eyebrow. “I thought I detected a Southern accent. Whereabouts are ya from?”

Eve mutters a gentle ‘thank you’ to the waitress and smiles when she cleans away Eve’s drained cup and picked clean plate, after having served the men their appropriate meals. Twisting her neck to face the blonde again, the private investigator keeps the refreshing grin plastered on her lips. “North Carolina. Yes, we kill people with kindness. Yes, we all praise Jesus like there’s no tomorrow. Yes, we party harder with our drinks than an Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. And yes, we’re all total Frat and Sorority snobs.”

Her spirits are lifted immeasurably when the three criminals share a genuinely entertained laugh at her drawl. The brunette with the small yet noticeable scar standing out on his strong jaw amongst all the stubble grins at her, admitting “I was wonderin’ if that was a Carolinian drawl in your voice. Couldn’t figure out if it was North or South.”

“You don’t speak with their slang though,” Blondie keenly observes. “Just the greater relaxed twang that’s really more of an ever-extendin’ drawl, like Jack said.”

“Mm, we emphasize more naturally rhythmic elements in our speech from our Caribbean influences. But growing up with my dad’s Irish accent has made me soften my vowels and harden my consonants more than the typical North Carolinian,” Eve explains, fingering her silver cross pendant absent-mindedly. “I’m Eve, by the way.”

“Mike,” the dark skinned man with the blinding white teeth introduces, jabbing his finger towards Blondie and saying “This is Rob, and that’s Jack,” he finishes by pointing at the brunette ‘Jack’.

“Pleasure,” Eve beams contagiously, her presence a stark white contrast of purity and benevolence in comparison to the tainted, experienced criminal ambience of the three men. Their demeanour – their _aura_ – is scarcely concealed behind the deceivingly amiable smiles and friendly words. If only they knew of her acute, observant eye for reading people and situations. Perhaps then they wouldn’t be as careless and throw up a half-hearted wall to veil their lawless lives.

“I met a broad like you once,” Rob offhandedly remarks, rubbing a haggard hand against the light blonde stubble tickling his jawline. He doesn’t appear as intimidatingly built as the other two, masculine, but not overly so like Mike and Jack. His eyes however, remind Eve of her own. Sharp. Astute. Crafty. His irises even mimic Eve’s own – the hazel swirl that hides a dangerous intellectual. _I’ll have to be wary of him_ , she internally notes to herself.

Eve arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow as a means to prompt him onwards. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Pretty face that could, as you so accurately put it, ‘kill with kindness’. She was a South Carolinian to top it off, and a massive Christian,” Rob prods his BLT with the mayonnaise contaminated toothpick, Mike and Jack having dug into their own burgers quite animatedly.

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking,” Eve tries not to overstep her boundaries, because despite the collected demeanour she’s so eloquently flaunting in front of the presumed Two Face henchmen, she’s actually quite anxious and frightened inwardly. They _are_ hired criminals, and the likelihood that they’ve murdered quite a few people in their lifetime is pretty high.

He cracks a knuckle. “We had a falling out. After a while, I couldn’t tell if she was bein’ nice or passive aggressive. It was a double edge sword I tell ya. All her friendliness could also be a razor sharp exercise in passive aggression. In the end, she made off with half of my life’s savings and my 1972 Plymouth Barracuda. Bitch just had to take the car,” he bitterly scowls under his breath, voting to down a rapacious gulp of his boiling beverage instead of ripping into his BLT.

“She was good in the sack though, wasn’t she?” Mike indecently leers, having momentarily forgotten the company that they are entertaining.

Rob smirks. “Yeah, she was fucking amazing in the sack. I think she praised God more in bed than she did outside of it, if that’s even possible.”

Jack awkwardly clears his throat, appearing to be the only one of the trio who hasn’t neglected Eve’s presence. “Not exactly the best conversation to have over lunch, is it boys?”

Rob shrugs it off, gaze sliding elsewhere indifferently. Mike mock surrenders, deciding to swipe his burger up again and ravage it contemptuously. Glimpsing apologetically back to Eve, Jack stirs his protein shake idly with the straw, saying “Gotta keep them in line more often than not. Lucky for me, during working hours they behave a bit more than the five year olds they are outside of work.”

The incoherent albeit unimpressed protests and growls from the other two criminals voice their displeasure at Jack’s remark, yet they refrain from intervening. Eve smiles, but it’s not entirely due to the near comical exchange. Here she is, in the company of what are most likely highly detrimental men, and they’re quarrelling like any other average Joe would with his mates. It’s farcical, _ludicrous_.

Eve recognises the window of opportunity thrown open by Jack, and leaps for it with all her might. “So you all work together? Well, it must keep the workplace entertaining in the least.” Innocence. Flippancy. Humour. Eve strives for all three of them, whilst attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible. _You never know_ , she comments. _They may just let something slip about Dent or the other mobs. Highly unlikely, but worth a shot._

Jack’s eyes brighten. “Yeah well, generally we can’t afford to be ‘entertaining’ in our line of work. ‘Specially around the boss.”

“I get what you mean,” Eve makes an effort to sympathize so she doesn’t come off as too invasive or curious. “I’ve tried bringing a bit of ease and humour to the workplace. Isn’t always appreciated. Strict jobs are like that though. Is yours overly so, or just enough to maintain a sense of professionalism?”

“Can be both,” Jack weighs his thoughts carefully. “Security businesses ordinarily have to maintain their professionalism, particularly in this city with all the nutcases runnin’ around.”

_The cover story, of course_. She should’ve expected that. Eve lightly chastises herself for being so enraptured by the moment and not even considering the fact they’re canny enough to not speak with loose lips. She isn’t Batman, they’re not going to quiver in pure, unadulterated fear before her and allow all their knowledge to burst out of their mouths like opened floodgates. She wouldn’t be surprised if said Dark Knight had already been fully informed and aware of every when, why, who and how involved in the calamitous instigation of the mob war when he had come to visit her. _If he did, and purposefully didn’t enlighten me_ …

What would she do? What _could_ she do? Like Bec had said, Eve is ‘too nice’. If she can’t even properly intimidate a normal, everyday person off the streets, what hope did she have to leech information from Gotham’s most notoriously formidable vigilante?

Heck, she doesn’t even know for certain that these men _are_ condemned criminals, let alone Dent’s lackeys. Eve is merely going off her own educated theories and speculations. They _could_ be employed within a security business for all she knew, but the likelihood of such immaculately dressed men who throw up an air of experienced intimidation – and also seem to frequent a decently renowned mob café – to just work in a security firm seems severely dubious in Eve’s opinion.

Eve’s lip quirks, despite feeling marginally deflated internally. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call them nutcases…”

The three men blink at her like she’s morphed into the Joker before their very eyes.

“You’re kidding right?” Mike splutters, almost inanely. “You’re saying that freaks like the Joker and Poison Ivy aren’t nutcases?”

Eve scrutinizes her word choice gingerly. “I think Gotham underestimates the sanity of the majority of them. Most aren’t actually ‘insane’ by the book, just by society’s standards. Look at Joker for example. The media has mused over what psychological illness he possesses for years now, even the Arkham psychiatrists have concluded various conditions from multiple personality disorder and psychopathy to sociopathy and schizophrenia. He changes, constantly. Like he wants everyone to consider him insane, yet grow infuriated and come up empty when it comes to pinpointing the particular illness that obstructs his sanity. In a way… he’s acting. He’s sane, but prefers to be in the character of a madman. He just likes being evil, and crazy. Doesn’t mean he is.”

All three blink again. Rob, the nimble intellectual that Eve has been treading carefully around, narrows his eyes into sharp razor slits. “Interesting theory. You’re quite observant, aren’t you? Most would throw you into Arkham for even usin’ the words ‘Joker’ and ‘not crazy’ in the same sentence.”

“I honestly couldn’t give a damn about what others think of me,” Eve shrugs off. “I’m entitled to my own opinions, just like everyone else. Others may have pessimistic and negative opinions on the people and events around them, but I prefer to remain optimistic and positive. More bad than good comes out of fighting hate with hate.”

Jack, Rob and Mike peer down at the North Carolinian as if she were a fluffy, white bunny rabbit, finding her untainted optimism and idealism more than adorable. “No offence Eve,” Jack stares at her through half-lidded eyes, “but people with that kind of positivity, decency and idealism don’t last long in this city. Gotham is an unrelenting black storm cloud that blocks all forms of happy sunlight, casting the vilest shadows of crime this world has seen. It would be a dream come true if everything here was sunny and bright like North Carolina, or even Central City. But it ain’t. The people of this city can’t afford that way of thinking.”

“’Specially now with the mob war hangin’ over the streets of the city and everyone in them,” Mike unenthusiastically grunts his input, Rob immediately slicing his gaze through the air and warningly pinning it to his companion.

_Could **not** have asked for a better opening_, Eve inwardly beams, beyond the point of ecstatic at the presented opportunity. She draws her dark, petite eyebrows into a delicate knot, once again reminding the three mobsters of a bunny when her nose slightly twitches along with it. “Mob war? I thought I vaguely read about that somewhere in the paper… but I didn’t really pay it much mind. Isn’t there always discrepancies in organised crime anyway?” Unbeknownst to the men across from her, during her innocent confusion, the private investigator had elegantly slipped her phone from her white trench coat pocket and smoothly tapped away at it until she turned the voice recording on. She had practiced doing that without glancing for _weeks_ , knowing fully well that it would eventually be beneficial.

Tension that hadn’t originally been there began to rise in the men’s bodies. Eve knows she’s treading on extraordinarily thin ice, but if the Dark Knight could go out _every night_ and risk his life against some of the largest criminals in American history, then she could damn well ask three henchmen a few innocuous questions.

Rob raps his knuckles on the splintering table, jaw nearly unnoticeably set. “There’s always _tension_ , and of course the backstabbing, lies and thinly veiled threats. But actual outright arguments and quarrels? Those aren’t common at all. Mobs like bein’ quiet and discreet about shit like that.”

They’re trying to be concise and brief as they can, Eve can tell. But she’s not done with them quite yet. “Then why is this mob war plastered all over the papers? Doesn’t seem discreet to me.”

The men share a look. Eve almost holds her breath at it, but is aware how suspicious that would seem, especially with Rob’s hawk eyes devouring her for any reaction she gives that may be out of line. A silent conversation passes between them, unspoken to Eve, but it occurs so fleetingly that their stiff behaviour could be brushed off as three security guards fearing for the wrong ears to hear the wrong words. Jack decides to jump in, his sigh drawn out exhaustedly as he leans forward and shakes the tension from his shoulders subtly. His calloused hands clasp together, thumbs ringing around one another for a few moments. “How much did you read in the papers?”

Eve angelically shrugs. “Just that a girl and guy from two crime families were shot dead and found in the same alley as the Wayne killings. I threw the paper out. Like I said, I didn’t pay it much mind.”

“Well everyone says that a mob known as the Maroni crime family is behind it. The Maroni family is one of the oldest mafia families in Gotham. _Not_ a family you want to be screwin’ around with,” Rob elaborates in a controlled manner, the other two mobsters stepping down in case they slip up with a word or two. _Smart move_. Eve tips her hat off to them for allowing the sharper intellectual to do the talking.

Eve nods her understanding, but the profound knot between her brows doesn’t budge. “Everyone _says_ that the Maroni’s are behind it? Why, you’re not as convinced?” She’s asking too many questions, and she knows it. But she’s _that_ close to getting something valuable out of the condemned criminals. She can practically taste it.

Rob scrutinises the private investigator cautiously. “No. I’m not. I got no solid proof or nuthin’, just my own opinions and speculations. Just like your theory of the Joker not bein’ a nutcase. Look, let’s just say there are a lot of whack jobs in this city who, for the right price or blackmail, will do things for certain people.”

_So someone may not necessarily be tricking Maroni, but **controlling** him… A rogue perhaps?_ Eve shakes her internal deliberation. _No, by the sounds of things, rogues and Mafia like to steer clear of one another, Sionis and Dent being the outstanding exceptions._

“Look, doll,” Mike shatters her thoughts, gaining her exhaustive attention. “You gotta be careful with the kinds of questions you ask ‘round these parts Eve. You’re new to Gotham, so you don’t know any better. But all kinds of ears can be found all over this city, and when they pick up of a sweet, pretty broad like you askin’ too many dangerous questions, they’ll start gettin’ curious. The only thing in this city that is worse than a curious civilian, is a curious criminal. _Especially_ mobsters and rogues.”

“Which is why we like keepin’ our noses out of that kind of business,” Jack finalises, all three eyes bearing down on the raven haired woman. “And so should you.”

Flashing her pearly whites, Eve inconspicuously switches her phone off and sleekly slides it back into her coat pocket under the table, bringing her hands up to clasp each other softly on the table afterwards. “Sorry,” she airily giggles, striving for the bashful, humble act of an innocent Carolinian. She hunches her shoulders marginally, allowing her hair to act as a curtain in front of half of her face. Signs of sheepish, timid and modest behaviour. “Mum always said I was too curious for my own good. Suggested that I should take up being a scientist or a journalist. However, I’ve always perceived journalists to be too invasive and hard-headed. Not to mention indecently rude.”

“So you a scientist then?” Mike queries, having devastated the remnants of what _was_ a burger.

Eve’s smile is small and covert, yet it’s played off as friendly and animated. “I did a Bachelor of Science and majored in psychology, but I ended up preferring information technology once I did a Bachelor degree in that. My mind didn’t have the intellectual capacity for biology, chemistry or physics. Science just didn’t really… click. Psychology was okay, but technology was just more interesting.” _Not a complete lie, I **did** do a single degree psychology, followed by criminal justice, and law enforcement and investigation…_

She nearly heaves a soft sigh of respite when they seem to accept her answer and subtly liberate the tension in their postures. Yet when Jack’s jaw unhinges to utter another question or comment, Eve starts up with an endearing jolt as her phone calls out to her with her distinctive ringtone of ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ by Jon Bon Jovi. The simmering glance the North Carolinian casts at the three men for impertinently grinning at her startle could barely be classified as a glare, and when their smirks only intensify into light chuckles, she dismays and relents at trying to glower at them.

Her swirling hazel eyes read the caller ID on the fingerprint smudged screen, her petite brows curling so far in towards one another they almost form a line. “It’s my brother…”

Jack doesn’t miss the surprised yet perplexed expression adorned on her gentle face. “Haven’t talked in a while or something?”

Eve lips turn into a line. “Or something.” She sends the call to voice mail and swiftly hurries to slide a twenty and a five under the complimentary salt and pepper shakers resting atop the table, collecting the rest of her belongings and smoothly slipping her warmth enveloping black gloves on. “It was lovely meeting you three. Hopefully we’ll run into each other here again sometime. Have a nice day,” Evangeline politely yet quickly departs, the three mobsters hardly able to rush out a ‘goodbye’ before she’s slipped out the front door.

The harsh, cold air is once again an unwanted wake up call, and as Eve scrolls through the various, seemingly never ending contacts of clients and family members, she eventually identifies one of them to be her brother’s.

She dials the number, and waits.

_“Eva. You didn’t pick up the first time.”_

The private investigator feels as if her chest has just been released from the iron grip of a human sized vice, euphorically relieved that if the first thing he says is simply a statement pointing her out for not picking up the first time, then he’s not calling due to a life threatening situation.

If she had it in her, she would have scowled. “I was preoccupied with work.”

The very brief smile in his voice is unmistakable amidst his faded North Carolinian drawl. _“You’re always ‘preoccupied with work’.”_

“I love my job, you know that,” Eve justifies herself softly, her boots clicking and clacking whilst her legs eat up the pavement. “Just like you do.”

_“Mm,”_ is all he responds with, emotion indistinguishable. _“Work is kind of the reason I’m calling.”_

Eve’s breath intake is sharp. “Nate, what’s the matter?”

_“Europol is catching up with me. I’m returning to America. Just thought I’d let you know.”_

Her brother’s truncated answer shouldn’t have been much of a shock to the private investigator, yet it nonetheless unsettled her otherwise collected demeanour. Nathaniel Winter, back in America? Eve knows her elder sibling would undoubtedly keep to himself, after all, ever since their youth the _both_ of them have been the solitary type of people, but at least Eve still cares and exudes empathy. Her brother on the other hand, is a very reserved, unsociable and quiet human being. Nathaniel is a novice in understanding the complex of human emotions.

Several times before Eve has considered him to most likely be a sociopath, yet he still exhibits particular mannerisms and behaviour that challenges that diagnosis. It’s nearly as if he can switch his apathy on and off. It’s very advantageous and convenient for his profession, yet inimical when his relationships with others are considered.

“I suppose I should be anticipating a few sporadic, ‘surprise’ visitations from you then?” The raven haired detective is already quite aware of the answer Nathaniel shall offer, but she views the inquiry as a formal inclination that merely confirms it aloud.

_“Most likely,”_ he monotonously answers in his customary reticent tone, words so quiet yet they hauntingly linger in the ears of anyone whom he addresses. Nathaniel has always had an intimidating aura. It seeps through his voice, his presence, his eyes…. His immense, masculine size doesn’t do anything to lessen his harrowing semblance either. Yet even amidst all of this frightening display, he never utters a word above a whisper. His voice is gravelly, demanding even when it seemingly doesn’t try to be, and ultimately it’s oppressive. In fact, ever since her encounter with Gotham’s Caped Crusader, Eve thinks he sounds almost identical to Batman; the only outstanding difference proving to be the level of her brother’s voice. So soft and quiet, and so domineering and clear at the same time.

Evangeline hums her acknowledgment at the response. “Please just try not to track mud into the living room – and keep Black off the couch. His cuspate claws tear up the fabric.”

_“I’ll try,”_ is all that is said before the unmistakeable drone of the ended call drums into Eve’s ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	5. Probable Puppeteers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Batman's villains.

_“Beauty may be dangerous, but intelligence is lethal.”_ ~ Unknown

“If I don’t see that new shipment in _my_ docks by tomorrow morning, I will _personally_ cut you up into tiny fucking pieces and throw you into the sewers myself!”

Rob hardly winces at the bone-chilling threats that his boss throws onto those around him anymore. The only times he _does_ wince, is when either Mike, Jack or himself are on the receiving end of said morbid threats. To speak of Two Face having a rampant temper is an understatement as large as saying that the Joker _may_ be tad crazy. However, after hearing Eve’s theory of Joker’s sanity, that last understatement may not even be as much of an understatement as Rob originally thought.

“Keller, Mulder, Donovan, get your asses in here _now_.”

“Looks like Harv is out to play tonight,” Mike glumly observes, referring to the more crude half of Two Face whose violent tendencies more often than not result in one of them being beaten around a bit.

Jack snorts in dark amusement. “Nights like this make you miss Harvey.”

They pass the near-quivering man whom had just been on the receiving end of Two Face’s wrath as they forward into the office, not sparing the unfortunate individual a glance as they close the door behind them. Even though a couple chairs are pleasantly placed before him, facing his boss, Rob decides to remain firmly standing. Easier to bolt out of the office should Harv get too ill-tempered.

Harv – whose half-scowl half-smirk is always plastered on his scarred face when he’s won the coin toss and is out to play – instantly slackens in exhaustion when he’s left alone with his top three men. He’s still terrifying and temperamental – he _always_ is – but around Michael Donovan, Robert Mulder and Jackson Keller he’s at his best, which, contrary to what others may believe, is _something_.

“When I find out who’s behind this mob war, I’m gonna string out his fucking torture for _months_ ,” Harv promises, running a hand through Harvey’s dark, chestnut brown hair before dragging it haggardly down his half of their face.

“Figuring out who’s pullin’ on Maroni’s strings may’ve just gotten a whole lot easier,” Robert Mulder announces to his boss, swiftly tossing a slim file onto Two Face’s desk.

Two Face stares cautiously at it out of the corner of his eye, his rigid, sharp jaw marginally unhinged to partially bare his teeth. “Care to enlighten me Mulder?”

“It’s a file on a woman known as Evangeline Winter,” Rob takes charge out of the trio of henchmen, dutifully disclosing “Mike, Jack and I met her at that cafe you took up on the edge of O’Reilly’s turf, ya know, the one Maroni tried to snatch?”

“Yeah I remember, but what’s some broad you idiots met at my cafe got to do with this mob war – a war which is becoming a royal pain in my ass,” Two Face growls in questioning, his mood evidently souring by each passing moment.

Jack represses a flinch. “She was asking us what seemed like some innocent, sly questions, yet when she split the joint after gettin’ a phone call, the cashier and barista informed us that she was also snoopin’ around and askin’ _them_ questions about how Maroni tried to put up a protection racket in the joint, and how _you_ swooped in and got them off the hook.”

“So we did some digging and found some guy named Eduardo Garcia. In the history on his Face Book page, we found an image of her with him and a post about him bein’ thrilled about her ‘solving his case’. In our free time we gave the guy a visit, politely asked him a few questions and found out the gal’s a private investigator,” Mike concludes their somewhat productive discoveries. Well, in his opinion they’re productive discoveries, considering how they’ve only had three days since their exchange with Evangeline and only pursued their suspicions of her between all the work their boss has thrown at them. Amidst all the crime and back stabbing resulting from the mafia feud, Mike’s surprised they had any free time _at all_ to get this done.

Yet even with all this information uncovered to him, Two Face only skims through the file as his lackeys babble on, casting the couple images of the so called ‘Evangeline Mendax Winter’ some appreciative glances.

 ** _Bitch has got a nice ass, but she ain’t worth the time at the moment,_** Harv internally comments to his other half residing in their joined mind, eyes devouring her image and the information for a few moments longer.

 _As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m going to have to agree with you. Between Maroni’s uncharacteristic provocations and Markovic and O’Reilly breathing down our neck for our help, a private investigator that isn’t even a part of the GCPD is the least of our worries,_ Harvey Dent reluctantly acquiesces with his criminal half, mind a buzz with all the commotion kicked up by the crime families at the current moment. _Still, we should have a guy check on her every once in a while. If she miraculously discovers anything before the rest of us, she may be of use._

 ** _She’s just some pretty broad who’s tryin’ to make a name for herself Harvey. She ain’t a risk. She’s barely a pebble in my fucking shoe. If she was workin’ alongside Gordon or the Bat, that would be different,_** Harv scowls at the previous DA, the both of them unaware of the uncomfortable silence that consumed the room the moment the trio of henchmen realized their boss was bickering with himself again.

Harvey is still indecisive. _Look, we have more than enough men. It’s not going to severely harm our numbers or ranks if we spare **one guy** to occasionally check in on her. Like I said before, she may hit a stroke of luck and find something that may prove to be of use. After all, we can’t just ignore her entire existence. She’s poking around our territory_. Harvey knew as soon as he broached Evangeline prodding at their turf that Harv would go all territorial on him like a damn dog. Sharing a brain with the guy can sometimes turn out to be advantageous.

Harv menacingly growls. **_There has to be over a hundred cafes in this fucking city, and she manages to find our one? Fine. I’ll have Louie or Mack look the bitch up in a week or so, but I’ll have to check with O’Reilly and Markovic to see if they actually hired her themselves before we go about stalking the broad,_** Harv eventually concludes, addressing Harvey’s light concern.

By the time the ‘super criminal’ asserts his focus back on his men, the abrupt movement of his head snapping up to meet their uncomfortable stares is enough to startle them back a couple inches. “We’ll organise something later. For now though, I need a status update on the casino I invested in down on 3rd. And _don’t_ fucking disappoint me.”

***

Within the passing four days succeeding the café investigation and her elder brother’s sudden phone call, Evangeline Winter has been deeply engrossed within Gotham’s infamous Rogue’s Gallery. Commissioner Gordon has tried reasoning with the North Carolinian that being entangled within a mob war is one of the very _last_ things a Gotham Rogue would set out to accomplish, yet after Rob’s subtle drop of his opinion, Eve is almost _certain_ that a rogue plays a part in this undertaking. Whether it is a half-rogue, half-mob man like Two Face or Black Mask, or an all-out notorious mastermind such as Scarecrow or Joker, she doesn’t yet know.

Eve vehemently deliberates over the public files of each so called ‘super criminal’ that are strewn out in front of her. Nothing particularly noteworthy has been spotted over her cameras yet, only a few suspicious discussions from Falcone men. So far Falcone has been distrustfully quiet amongst all the vigorous uproar from the other families. As if he’s more knowledgeable than he’s letting on.

The entire investigation is becoming an entanglement of various theories and judgements. Just as Eve is becoming confident in an established theory of hers, a piece of evidence precipitously swerves around a sharp corner and knocks it from its pedestal. The only firm conclusion Eve has come to is that there is a player outside of these families that has intervened and had a hand in this calamity of feud. Question is, who?

She mulls peacefully to herself the current situation, legs perfectly crossed atop the inviting covers of her bed, numerous photos, files and papers scattered like patches of snow before her. “Okay, so a few reports have said that members of the organised crime syndicates have stated that Maroni is uncharacteristically acting brashly on impulse, and relatively violently too. Yet these findings don’t make it seem as if it is the result of black mail... it’s _willingly_ , yet atypical.”

Suddenly, it’s as if God himself has determined that Eve’s devoutness to this case has earned her a hint at the next piece to this puzzle, for unexpectedly, one particular name seems to stand out like a splatter of red on a blank white canvas amongst all the other photos and files.

_Jervis Tetch._

“The Mad Hatter...” The private detective incoherently mumbles aloud, a coy grin surfacing on her face. _Isn’t he known for creating mind control devices?_

It’s a mere arbitrary speculation on her behalf, but something about the delusional mad man seems to stick out to Evangeline like a sore thumb. _Perhaps Mr. Tetch owed a mob member a favour? Or, like Rob suggested, it could be some form of black mail._ Eve didn’t know, nor did she think that anyone down at the GCPD would be aware of the appropriate answer either. Only one man besides Tetch and his puppeteer could affirm or disprove her theory.

_I wonder if Gordon would allow me the pleasure to borrow that spotlight atop his precinct?_

***

“Ey Sam, don’t cha think the boss is actin’ a bit off lately?” Seymour Rickman – a low, nobody lackey – asks his mate Andy Murdocca as they idly wait outside their boss’ office.

Andy jaggedly rubs the side of his face, fingers scraping along his progressively growing stubble and emitting a scratchy, irritating sound. “I dunno Ricky, I mean, he’s more violent than usual I guess. If I wanted a volatile, crazy boss I would’ve signed up with Two Face.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Ricky snorts his displeasure disdainfully.

“Any particular reason you gentlemen are lazily loitering around when I specifically remember calling you to my office?”

Andy barely regains his composure from the sudden shock quick enough to prevent his cigarette from prodding hotly at his right eye. Ricky on the other hand, quite nearly carelessly drops his loaded, lethal firearm. Both men skittishly scamper to attention, blubbering out “S-Sorry boss.”

Sal Maroni simply dusts off their incompetence like a speck of dust, towering and looming over them whilst taking one long, foreboding drag of his freshly lit cigar. “I’ve got a job for you fine gentlemen. Lefty here,” Maroni soberly addresses Rickman, gesturing to Murdocca, “says you can be trusted. And I trust Lefty. If you don’t live up to this expectation, _both_ of you will have a date at the morgue. Capisci?”

The men nod firmly in unison. “Yeah boss.”

“Good,” Sal allows a momentary grin to play at his lips, ominously leaning in closer to them. “Cops and the Bat found out I shot the kids behind the Monarch Theatre. No one was there that night but me, the kids, a few of their men and a few of my men. I want the two of you to flush the mole out. Whether it be one of my men or one of theirs, I couldn’t care less. Just _find me_ the rat. And keep it quiet.”

“Got it boss,” and “On it boss man,” are the simultaneous, automatic responses blurted out by Ricky and Lefty, taking Maroni’s concise, sharp nod afterwards as an act of dismissal. Inelegantly, they scuttle away and vanish from Maroni’s imposing, professional presence, abandoning the Italian mafia boss to his own feuding, disorderly conjectures and thoughts.

The smooth, papery sensation of the warm cigar plays at Sal Maroni’s lips, his calloused fingers relieving his mouth of the alleviating tobacco only for him to puff out an obscuring cloud of charcoal smoke like a dragon. The mob boss distantly and witheringly stares at where his two men scurried off to. “No rats or bats are going to interfere with this. And sometimes, to catch a rat, all you need is the right trap.”

***

Evangeline Winter graciously thanks the commendable Commissioner _again_ for permitting her to use the spotlight she lit only moments ago. “Really Gordon, it means a lot. If he can confirm or disprove this suspicion of mine, not only will I be able to rest better, but I can dutifully move on with the investigation. Speaking of which, how are _you_ going with it?”

James Gordon huffs out exhaustedly, the simple gesture quite clearly conveying his answer. “Not well at all. Too many bought out cops in my precinct to get enough steady information on _any_ of the families. I’m unfortunately relying on you and Batman quite heavily for this one. Wish I could help more, so like I said before, if you need anything, just ask. Besides restricted files. Those I can’t willingly give you.”

The private investigator expressively beams her gratitude. “Don’t worry about those, but for everything else, thank you very much. Without all your help, I would be working at a much more moderate and stagnate pace.”

“Don’t mention it kid,” the fifty eight year old Commissioner dotingly replies, briefly patting her shoulder before he progressively ambles back to the door. “He’ll most likely be a while. Just give a yell if you want a cup of Joe or something Eve.”

“Will do Jim,” Eve gingerly promises, casting the officer a succinct glance as his heavily coated back disappears behind the chipping, time-worn door. The thirty four year old Southerner absentmindedly sighs, her soft breath entering the crispy air in the form of a fresh, delicate white puff. She’s still attempting to acclimatize herself to the arctic temperatures of this city, and unfortunately enough she thinks it may be a while to come before she does so.

According to her white and gold Michael Kors wrist watch, she has been patiently waiting around for nearly forty minutes before the baritone, gravelly voice of the Caped Crusader amusingly shocks her from behind. “You called.”

She squeaks – almost like a mouse – and elegantly spins to face the towering, dark wall a mere meter away from her. “I understand your need to be secretive and inconspicuous when you’re fulfilling your duties as a vigilante, but perhaps you should consider a bell or something when you’re convening with allies and friends.”

“I don’t have any friends,” the Dark Knight laconically replies, yet doesn’t entirely deflate the light humour dancing in the atmosphere.

Eve dazzlingly smiles. “I find that hard to believe. You are quite the popular man in this town, especially with the criminals. Your girlfriend must get jealous often.”

“Don’t have a girlfriend either,” the dark clad vigilante once again monotonously responds, the lower, revealed half of his face veiled by shadows and shrouding his razor sharp jaw.

“I find that even harder to believe,” Eve continues to playfully tease, and almost frowns perplexedly at herself for doing so. _I don’t tease. I **never** tease. This is the Batman Evangeline; act professional and state your business._ “But I didn’t call you just to interrogate you about your social and love life. I need a bit of help, and you’re the only man who can get the job done.”

This manages to pique the Dark Knight’s interest. “What do you need?”

Eve nervously breathes, toying with the sterling silver ring on her middle finger like she always does when she’s apprehensive. It’s nothing spectacular, like her necklace in that sense. It’s simply a silver ring that has a small, polished heart with a petite cross in the centre of it, a tiny diamond sitting snugly in the middle of said cross. Plain, but that’s the way she prefers it.

“I got a tip from a source, who shall remain anonymous, that a rogue may have had a hand in controlling Maroni to—”

“You think he’s being controlled?” Batman intervenes, intrigued by her opinionated theory.

The North Carolinian nods. “Word is going around that he’s not acting himself. The signs don’t point towards black mail, but they don’t point towards the usual Sal Maroni either. Due to a rogue being involved, and Maroni not particularly behaving like himself, I devised this somewhat far-fetched theory that _maybe_ Jervis Tetch and his mind control devices could be involved. Like I said, it’s far-fetched, but if someone is controlling Maroni and that same someone cashed in an owed favour with the infamous Mad Hatter... we might have something.”

The Dark Knight – being the world’s greatest detective – immediately catches onto her train of thought. “You want me to dig around and find out if Tetch owed any favours and see if they’ve been recently cashed in.”

Eve almost appears sheepish. “Only if you have the time. I know you’re a busy man. In fact if you don’t have any time to spare, I would greatly appreciate a few names of men in the mob ranks who will talk for the right price—”

“I’ll get you your information,” Batman sternly promises, his eerily dark silhouette gliding across the expanse rooftop and about to vanish into the night before the private investigator calls out.

“Thank you! And, well, please try not to break too many bones! I don’t know how I feel about bodily harm being inflicted unto others because of my own possibly incorrect speculations.”

This time, when the Dark Knight’s chin steadily twists to the side so he may readily toss his response over his shoulder, Eve parts her rosy lips in minimal bewilderment upon spying the small, humoured smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll try, but no promises Miss Winter.”

Evangeline Winter hardly hears his daunting dark cape flutter once when he dissipates into the shadows. His empire.

***

Edward Nygma exasperatedly exhales, not even attempting to conceal his evident boredom and mild irritation behind a mask of moderate patience and affability. He doesn’t mind his companion’s occasionally crude company often, but due to the ongoing trying times in Gotham, Two Face’s borderline petulant presence is beginning to test his self-control.

“Sionis ain’t helping anything either. If anything he’s being fucking childish and callow, trying to hit at my businesses while the families are in disarray,” Harv tempestuously complains, ironed tie haphazardly loosened and half-black half-white blazer undone in a display of leisure whilst he nurtures his glass of Johnnie Walker scotch whiskey. The manner in which he’s sprawled in is akin to a cat, but not your common, every day, mundane domestic feline. No, Two Face’s movements and mannerisms are more comparable to a regal, visceral jungle cat. The way in which his muscles and shoulders languidly roll, even before he slinks in for the kill. He may not be as suave or sumptuous as jaguar or leopard, but when taking into consideration his sheer brutality and power, the man is a tiger. Yet, unfortunately for Gotham’s Puzzle Prince, Two Face can also prattle like a parrot after a taxing, demanding day of work followed by a few strong intoxicants to loosen his lips.

Even though the infamous Riddler is able to neglect the faint buzz of the bar life around him, he’s incapable of effectively spurning his comrade’s grievances as efficiently. He does, nonetheless, entertain the crime lord and his gripes. A man with such power in numbers, wealth, connections and strength will undoubtedly come in handy one day. “Roman Sionis is an obscene ignoramus who doesn’t possess a single word in his vocabulary above three syllables. He does, however, have an inconvenient tendency to figuratively push the wrong buttons on everyone he comes into contact with. He’s no match for a superior intellect such as I, but I do still hold a grudge against him for robbing me of one of my warehouses. Perhaps I’ll throw a few of his dull, inane men into some of my death traps.”

“Can you throw _him_ into one of your death traps?” Harv hopefully suggests, swiftly downing the last of his rusty coloured beverage and slamming the empty glass onto the sleek bar counter. It is his bar, so he couldn’t really give a damn if someone spotted him out in the open like he is right now. With everything going on, his intimidating security detail has startlingly increased in numbers and strength tenfold. He’s presently safer than the damn President of the United States himself.

Edward Nygma _does_ ruminate over the prospect for a few moments, his aloof lime green eyes narrowing in consideration as his thin lips press into a fine line. “I do suppose that would be entertaining. That barbaric buffoon wouldn’t last three minutes in one of my master creations. However, I don’t particularly feel like sticking my nose into this currently sloppy and premature squabble between the Irishman, the Russian and the Italian. Besides, I have other much more important affairs that require addressing.”

Harv curtly scoffs. “What, coming up with another half-baked death trap for the Bat? Didn’t the last thousand or so times teach you anything?”

“He cheated! Every time, that insolent, boorish primate cheated!” Nygma seethes out at no one in particular, neglecting the partially amused expression shining through the eyes of the tiger besides him. “Unfortunately for him, _this_ time I have devised a puzzle so great, it will render him a blubbering, broken down mess begging for I, the Riddler, to free him of his idiocy.”

“Of course you have,” Harv borders on derisive when he concurs, slyly slipping out a hundred and sliding it under his drained glass. “Not that this hasn’t been an entertaining evening, but I still got a mob war to take care of. Fucking Italians, Russians and Irish wouldn’t last a day without yours truly.”

 _More like they wouldn’t last a day **with** yours truly_, Edward reflects internally, because contrary to what everyone who has ever known may say, he _does_ know when to preserve his thoughts and block his verbal perspicacity into them. The most _Harvey_ would’ve done if he voiced his previous judgement would’ve been to glare in an unimpressed manner, but _Harv_ is the wild card. _Harv_ is erratic and unpredictable. Whether he would’ve vulgarly lashed out verbal abuse or physically expressed his displeasure at Nygma is, ironically, like flipping a coin. There’s a fifty-fifty chance of ending up with either.

Don’t mistake Edward Nygma for being intimidated by the brute. Oh no, that’s not the case at all. It’s like he formerly mentioned; the certifiably crazy man may one day be of use to the Riddler. So in conclusion, Nygma wasn’t going to potentially discard a future beneficial tool for his genius creations and plans just because he couldn’t keep his trap shut. That would lower him to the same level of all the other ignorant, hairless apes in this city who can hardly generate commendable thoughts and ideas, let alone know when to keep them to themselves or not.

“Not that you’re their babysitter or anything my dear friend, but perhaps do us all a favour and make sure they remain out of the other rogues’ ways? As we both know, Joker is coercive and uncontrollable at best. If _he_ jumps into this petty altercation, we may not have any crime families bar you and Sionis by the end of the month,” the intellectually pompous Prince of Puzzles forewarns, index finger delicately circling the edge of his untouched glass of bourbon lethargically.

“Wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” Harv sarcastically mutters to himself, nodding stiffly to Rob who in turns nods to a few other men stationed across the room. “See you around Nygma. Try not to get locked up into Arkham anytime soon; I still need ya for those… _transactions_.”

Edward disinterestedly waves him off. “I would like to see those dim-witted cretins who call themselves police officers try and catch a mind such as mine.”

Harv only reacts to Edward’s slander towards Gotham’s law enforcement with a grunt, carelessly tossing his over coat over his left arm. Without so much as another word, Two Face saunters purposefully to and out the exit, his threatening, formidable flunkies flanking him on either side. The Riddler regards the parade impassively, abandoning the full glass of alcohol on the expanse counter and suavely arising from the bar stool. His fingers automatically move to button up his iconic green blazer, the bright, alarming purple question mark standing out prominently on his back. Retrieving his emblematic, gold question mark cane from where it rests against the bar, the notorious rogue ambles assuredly out of the bar, cane adeptly swinging by his side.

Nygma is accustomed to the polar temperatures Gotham can drop to on winter nights by now, but the first nip is always a little jolt to his superior senses. Most cities are an entrancing vision at night, with all the lights turning it into a painting. A pitch black canvas speckled with endless assortments of yellows, oranges, reds and a few blues, greens and violets here and there, some in the form of lines, squares and dots, others blurred into indiscernible shapes and zigzags. But Gotham isn’t like that. No, Gotham’s lights are few and sad, all the dread, despair and crime shrouding what _should_ be happy, blithe lights. The pollution is unbearable, casting a permanent, sombre bruise-like cloud over the city that hardly ever enables its citizens to spy upon the stars or moon. The Batman’s impending silhouette of doom whenever he flies by does nothing to lessen the terror or atmosphere either.

Edward barely makes it down the side alley of one of the many bars that belong to Two Face when his phone unexpectedly calls out to him from his pocket. Frowning, the enigmatic criminal fetches the self-invented cell phone and identifies the alert to be from his security system.

Whenever Edward Nygma nears a security system or camera of any kind, his security phone detects it meters before he enters its domain or peripheral vision and effectively shuts it down whilst he is in the area. This is why Mr. Nygma is mildly surprised by the sudden signal from his device, tapping on the notification and using the presented information to pinpoint _where_ the camera is. Harv and Harvey have voiced their opinion on using security cameras to guard businesses more than enough times to fit several novels. They want them on the _inside_ , not the _outside_. Outside means any wandering imbecile can disconnect it and poach it for parts or information. Whereas if they’re inside, it’s not as simple a task due to all the onlookers and guards swarming the building like bees in a hive. So _why_ would there a security camera _outside_ one of his bars?

Swiftly leaping atop the potent but fortunately closed dumpster, Edward Nygma scrutinises the carefully situated camera with intrigue. It’s placed in a way that cloaks it in shadows, masking it from anyone who even offers the ‘empty’ area a second glance. Not only that, but the angle at which it’s tilted and the highly professional, high-calibre technology that it seems to comprise of is as commendable as mob security cameras, yet of a different classification and company brand than the cameras generally bought by the crime families.

Digging around the inner pocket of his impeccable suit, Edward fishes out his compact yet do-able tool kit of small tools that he insists on having on-hand at all times. He skilfully detaches the mystery camera from the harsh brick wall and inspects it closer, intensively turning it over in his hands.

The egregious Riddler once again finds himself posing the question of why, may God only know, is there a security camera outside one of Harvey Dent’s bars?

 _God won’t be the only one to know soon enough,_ Nygma inwardly vows. _For I, the Riddler, have just stumbled upon my next enigma._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~T.L


	6. A Wonderland Of Revelations

_“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”_ ~ Mad Hatter

The elderly butler sighs in exhaustion through the Bluetooth line in the Dark Knight’s cowl, yet Bruce Wayne doesn’t need to hear to spiel that follows to know what his most trusted and dearest friend is about to say. _“Master Bruce, perhaps it is time you returned for the night. Mr Tetch will only be that much harder to apprehend if you do not have enough sleep.”_

 “I’m fine, Alfred. Evangeline needs that information about Tetch to continue the investigation. I actually think her seemingly far-fetched theory may not be as far-fetched as she thinks,” Bruce lowly replies, his long strides devouring the rooftop of the warehouse he just investigated.

_“Sir?”_ The British man prompts, needing to speak nothing else for the billionaire, vigilante to know of his confusion.

A low rumble grows in Batman’s throat, the man deliberating his words prudently. “Remember when Tetch assaulted and murdered Emilia Bianchi a couple years back?”

_“Carmine Falcone’s niece? Yes, I do believe I recall that. Mr Tetch had mistook her for Alice did he not?”_

“He did, and when the police found the body, Falcone was furious,” Bruce jogs not only his guardian’s blurred memory, but his own as well. It _has_ been two or three years since the incident, so it’s entirely natural for one’s memory to be as bleary as theirs are. However, talking aloud seems to help Bruce in recollecting it. “There was a five hundred thousand hit out for Tetch after that, when suddenly, a week or so later, Falcone called the hit off.”

_“Mm I do seem to remember that now that you mention it. It was all under rather peculiar circumstances. Did you ever figure out why he would do such a thing? After all, family is the most important thing to Mr. Falcone.”_

“No, I didn’t,” the vigilante laconically responds, leaping down ever so elegantly and landing in the front seat of his ‘batmobile’ with a deafening silence. Bruce Wayne alternates between pressing several disconcerting buttons before the military like vehicle roars down the road with the power of tank and the speed of a sports car, expertly avoiding damaging any public property or cars whilst he does so.

_“And what, pray tell, may this have to do with Salvatore Maroni and the murder of Miss Markovic and Mr O’Reilly?”_

Bruce smoothly veers around another car. “Falcone wouldn’t just call it off for no apparent reason. He would have either had to been very strongly convinced by Tetch or a third party, or Tetch would have had to indebted himself to Falcone. He would have to be of use.”

_“But I thought Carmine Falcone and Salvatore Maroni were quite cordial with one another? Or in the very least had a healthy business relationship.”_

“Relationships and circumstances change often in Gotham,” the Dark Knight gravelly points out to the Brit. “ _We_ may not know of the current motive that may be behind it, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. It’s worth looking into in the very least, especially with the trail turning cold as it is.”

Alfred Pennyworth sounds perturbed by the notion, his evident yet tolerable displeasure expressed through his thoughtful hum. _“I still think it would be wise to return for the evening Master Bruce. You can continue with this investigation tomorrow evening. Allow Miss Winter the honour to take over for now, she sounds a lot smarter than most give her credit for.”_

“For someone who hasn’t even spent half a year in Gotham and already knows the criminals better than most Gotham civilians, she is,” Batman exhaustedly concurs, striking blue eyes sagging momentarily in fatigue. “Very well. I’m turning in for the night Alfred.”

_“I’ll heat up the dinner then sir. No good going to bed on an empty stomach,”_ Alfred delightedly yet reservedly announces. It’s not often that his charge actually listens to him when he implores him to return for the evening.

The billionaire doesn’t respond to his guardian’s declaration, merely switching off the line and cutting their placid conversation to a close.

***

_“Do you get any sleep?”_

“Do power naps on the bus or taxi count?”

Rebecca Daniels expresses her profound disapproval with a near over dramatic sigh, one that is quite audible even over the phone line. _“No, they don’t.”_

“Then no, I don’t,” Evangeline Winter exhaustingly answers in a monotone voice, sifting and scrolling through more news articles on her decidedly still recent computer.

With the Dark Knight out and about doing whatever intimidating vigilantes do, Eve has decided to turn her slowly draining attention to the crime history of this deplorable, lawless city. She obviously is aware that she can’t inform herself of _every_ little crime since the moment this city was erected, but she can skim read through as many mafia related news articles from the past few years or so as she can.

_“This case will be the death of you Ange.”_

“Most likely,” Eve flippantly agrees, blank, ghastly face and bloodshot eyes resembling a zombie at the present moment.

Rebecca strongly wishes her best friend could witness the dissatisfied grimace touching her face right now. _“You should be asleep.”_

 “So should you,” blandly fires back, skimming over another Joker article that had somehow popped up.

  _“I **was** asleep; I only got up for a bathroom break when it occurred to me that ‘hey, knowing Angie she’s probably working herself into an early grave right now. I should probably call her up and knock some fucking sense into her’. Funny enough, I was right.”_

“Did you know the Joker posed as Black Mask and hired eight assassins to murder Batman one night? And Batman took down _all eight_ of them _and_ the Joker in the same night?” Eve jadedly chimes in off-subject, interest piquing through her washed-out state. _The man truly is above the laws of nature,_ she internally applauds him. _Dear God... is that an eleven foot crocodile man? This city really has some colourful characters._

_“Why are you reading up on assassins, rogues and that loony vigilante that dresses like a flying rodent? Shouldn’t you be focused on oh, I don’t know, the **actual** perpetrators and subjects of your case? Or even better; sleeping?” _

“It just... came up,” the ebony haired woman responds nearly incoherently, eyes not even sparing her talking phone on the table beside her a single thought, too glued to the computer screen, as if she is in a trance.

Bec huffs irritably, her temper beginning to get the best of her. _“You’re about to fall asleep at the fucking computer, I can feel it. Get some damn rest Ange, or else I **will** drive to that shit-hole of a city and force you to bed myself.”_

“Alright, alright. Perhaps you’re right,” the private investigator hesitantly acquiesces, shaking her head and firmly blinking herself from her dazed stupor. “It is almost sunrise over here. I could use some sleep before the criminal underworld comes alive again tonight.”

_“ **Now** you’re speaking my language,”_ Bec breathes tiredly, relieved.

Eve can hardly huff her amusement, for to do so would require spending energy, something that both her and Rebecca Daniels knows she has very well already overspent. Eve doesn’t _really_ perceive herself to be at fault though. No, for if you were to be in lamentable city that is progressively tearing itself apart through mafia family wars – this is not even _counting_ the colourful individuals known as the Rogue’s Gallery – wouldn’t you feel some sense of moral obligation to sacrifice luxuries such as sleep, food and socialising? Probably not, for it is a treacherous and most likely fatal path to tread on – not to mention it doesn’t really relate to you – but Evangeline Winter was _there_ when it kicked off. Eve was _there_ when the harrowing squelch of the bullets ate into the flesh of their chests. She was _there_ when the nauseating scent of meat from the flesh swarmed her, eventually followed by the detestable stench of bowel, stomach and bladder content that continued to assault and wash over her nose like a tsunami of fetor.

It may not have been the first time she had seen a dead body, but it was the first time she had seen and smelt one up close, as well as _been there_ when the murder took place.

This case isn’t just an ethical obligation anymore. Yet when she contemplates it, it never has entirely been a sense of ethical obligation. Sure, she very much so doesn’t want any more people dead and for the crimes to die down to their original level – which is still frighteningly high, but better than the current level – but there’s more to it. The pinch of selfishness in her wants to figure this out and stop it to sate her curiosity. However, after all the time that has been devoted to this, she’s also emotionally invested in it. Like how a scientist becomes emotionally invested in their life work, whilst trying to sate their curiosity and complete their sense of duty to world. And to do all this, she is willing to sacrifice sleep and other human necessities. Her best friend does have a rather dismal point though. Eve isn’t invincible. She _does_ need sleep eventually, and apparently, ‘eventually’ means now.

“I’ll finish up with this article and go straight to bed. My tank _is_ feeling pretty low,” Eve additionally comments, hoping to please her friend’s misgivings further.

_“Good. Talk to you later then, because not all of us can be nocturnal and diurnal.”_

“Night Bec.”

_“Night Ange.”_

_Click_.

When Eve exhales, it feels as if her shoulders have been relieved of the weight of the world. She tightly rolls them back, distinctly feline like, and manoeuvres the mouse to hover over the ‘x’ at the top right of screen when she halts. Freezes, in fact.

**‘ Emilia Bianchi late for tea, off with her head!’**

_Emilia Bianchi? Why is that name familiar?_ Eve warily inquires from herself, re-reading the headline a few times. _Sounds Italian. Was it a name in one of the Maroni or Falcone files?_

Fatigue stepping down to curiosity for the current moment, Eve clicks on the news article and devours every word on the screen. Each word she absorbs is like a pump of adrenalin into her system, warding off any trace debility for the time being.

Jervis Tetch had apparently mistaken Emilia Bianchi, niece to the all-powerful Carmine Falcone, for the fictional character Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Not only was the poor twenty one year old left vulgarly raped and messily murdered for the police to stumble upon, but this particular journalist even went to lengths to divulge that _‘mob boss Falcone is out for blood’_.

That one comment and four cups of coffee is all that Eve needed to get the gears of this investigation turning again.

***

To say that Evangeline Mendax Winter is tired, would be as much of an understatement as saying the Joker has killed a few people.

A four hour power nap managed to rejuvenate some of her stamina and spirit, enough so that she could trudge through the possible new lead without fretting over falling asleep at the computer, her work desk or the pin board. Now she scrutinises the miniscule time at the bottom of the laptop, having to blink and sleepily clear her eyes a few time before coming to a realisation that it does in fact say 9:42am. _But it was 3:21 an hour ago…?_

Time seems to be slipping through Eve’s fingers, much like her sanity. With each nanosecond she’s awake; she can feel the fatigue sinking its long, skeletal claws into her body. Each muscle, tendon and bone grow heavier and heavier, as if she’s putting on layer after layer of clothing whilst underwater.

She absentmindedly claws out for her phone again, deciding that now would be a good time to give Jim a quick ring and ask what she’s been dying to ask since she stumbled upon the news article. The number only dials twice before the gruff, concise tone of James Gordon exhaustedly bites out _“Commissioner Jim Gordon.”_

“Hey Jim.”

_“.... Eve? You sound like death.”_

“You don’t even want to know what I look like.” She attempts at humour, but doesn’t have nearly enough energy to execute it properly.

His sigh is audible and, in Eve’s opinion, a tad exaggerated. _“Do I wanna know how long you’ve been awake for?”_

“Probably not. I just have a quick question because I know you’ve got your hands full at the moment. Two years ago Jervis Tetch raped and murdered Emilia Bianchi, Falcone’s niece. Several reports and some of the files here say he put a five hundred thousand dollar hit out on Jervis, but after a week there seems to be no more mentions of it. Did he call it off?”

Jim needs a few moments to scramble his rampant thoughts together and dig through some old memories. The pause is tense, even through the phone, and the private investigator knows that Jim is attempting to recollect as many details about the crime as he can. She also knows though that being a police Commissioner, you come across quite possibly a million or so crimes each year, especially in a city like Gotham. It’s only natural for him to require some time to reminisce that _one_ particular crime. _“Yeah... yeah he did. Boys and I couldn’t figure out why, Carmine Falcone isn’t one to let family matters down that easily.”_

Eve hums her thoughts. “Could Tetch have controlled him to let it go? Or would someone have been able to talk him out of it?” _Last one is highly unlikely, but I’ve got entertain all the possibilities._

He snorts. _“And what, control him all these years so he still doesn’t call for his blood? Tetch is smart and persistent, but not **that** smart and persistent. And the only people Falcone would’ve listened to in matters like that are his family, but they would’ve been just as upset about it as he was. What’s this got to do with Maroni shooting up the kids anyway?”_

“Chasing up some possibly leads, that’s all,” the raven haired woman dusts off, her left index finger habitually tap tap tapping on the desk like it always does when she’s in fierce thought. “I think that’s all I need. Sorry I keep bothering you Jim.”

_“Don’t worry about it kid, at least you’re working. That’s more than what half of this precinct actually does.”_

Her huff of a laugh is brief and weary. “Thanks Jim. I’ll allow you to return to your duties.”

_“Get some sleep Eve, everyone needs it. Even the Bat.”_

“Will do.”

_Click._

***

“I have time Tetch, and you’re _wasting it_. Tell me what I want to know.”

A nightmare, a nightmare. A horrible, terrible dark shadow looms over the snivelling weasel of a man known as Jervis Tetch. The creature has ears as pointed as teeth, a colossal wingspan to rival the fearful jabberwocky, and eyes bluer than the March Hare – though, Jonathan Crane does not entirely appreciate Jervis’ nickname for him. He hardly considers himself anything like a talking, walking vermin that speaks little to no sense and has an unhealthy obsession with tea. That doesn’t matter to Jervis though. Jonathan Crane _is_ the March Hare, and one day, the Hatter muses, he’ll come to his senses. Or quite the opposite, after all, all the best people are completely mad.

Jervis quivers like a timid animal in the presence of a predator, little feet suspended in the air – courtesy of the Dark Knight himself of course. “If you knew Time as well as I do, you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_.”

_Crack_.

Oh dear, that would the eleventh time the Dark Knight has broken Jervis Tetch’s nose.

Batman’s patience is wearing thinner than a strand of hair. It’s only his second strenuous night of tracking down the delusional Hatter. Even though he has pinpointed the whereabouts of the mentally ill individual and is currently interrogating him for relevant information, Tetch has refrained from blubbering about anything of value, only talking in Lewis Carroll quotes and indiscernible mad man drivel. The Caped Crusader only has a limited amount of patience, and Jervis Tetch is – ironically – drinking it up like a cup of tea.

“Start. _Talking_.”

The Hatter swallows down his fear, allowing the Hare’s advice to guide him in doing so. Charily, his nimble, slimy, gloved fingers grip Batman’s own, carefully uttering out “You seem to have a problem Dark Knight, and you know what the issue is with this world? Everyone wants a magical solution to their problem, and everyone refuses to believe in magic. Magic fills this world Batman, and there’s no room for people in this land who don’t believe in it. Oh poor poor Batman, it's hard enough to live in a land where you don't belong, but knowing it... holding conflicting realities in your head... will drive you _mad_.”

The dark, leather clad hands of Gotham’s vigilante tightly curl around the thread-bare coat of the neurotic criminal, lifting him up in one, swooping arch and slamming him into the wooden table of the abandoned warehouse. The splinters spurt out like little, timber specks of rain, the table instantly collapsing from the devastating impact. Tetch snivels more, struggling and clawing for anything his feeble, scant fingers can grasp to lift himself up. The Caped Crusader moves faster though, gliding soundlessly across the ageing concrete floor and swiftly picking him up once more, as if the Hatter were a mere toddler.

Batman draws the grotty, grimy face of the madman right up to his own, and Jervis almost screams at the sight. His lip is curled into a brusque snarl, his patience having flown out the window with the last answer. Unfortunately for Batman, Jervis Tetch is one of his only adversaries who he could pound and pummel until all 207 of his bones are broken or fractured, and he _still_ wouldn’t be able to get an answer out of him. One of the many cons of dealing with a criminally insane opponent.

“Who did you help!?” The Dark Knight refuses to relent, all the years of dealing with the Joker having taught him to _never_ cave in.

The sound the Mad Hatter makes is somewhere between a giggle and a sob. “The King of Hearts does not control all of his subjects. No. No no no _no_. One of his own controls them, a friend of mine who is never late to tea. He controls the Knave of Hearts, whose father lost his head long ago. Oh dear, the Knave! The Knave did steal those tarts, but they weren’t the tarts to the Queen of Hearts. No no _no_. Those tarts belonged to the Bandersnatch and the Gryphon. Those tarts did spill, and what a mess it was. But I suppose it wasn’t the Knave’s fault, for the Knave was not in his right mind. Not unlike the rest of us, we’re all mad here.”

Now _that_ is what the Dark Knight was looking for.

“Thanks,” his gruff voice is succinct and monotone, not possessing any true traces of gratitude. Poor Jervis Tetch is deprived the chance to respond, for milliseconds after the vigilante’s reply, his dark, armoured elbow swipes up and slams hard enough onto the Hatter’s forehead to knock him out cold. He tersely ties up the criminal in under a minute, discarding the unconscious body up against the wall and purposefully striding away and into the night once again.

Bruce’s hand flies up to meet the ear of his suit, talking into his cowl “Alfred, send a notice to the GCPD to pick up Jervis Tetch from 177B Stevenson parade. I’ve got what I need.”

_“Of course sir. May I ask what you have discovered?”_

Bruce’s lips thin into a straight line, his hard eyes staring straight ahead as he exits the building and arrives on the sparse rooftop, the cold air battling to penetrate his armour yet to no avail. “Tetch talked of the King of Hearts not being able to control all of his subjects. In Lewis Carroll’s books, the King of Hearts is the second most feared and powerful figure, right after the Queen of Hearts. I have no doubt in my mind he was referring to Carmine Falcone, for he is the most powerful mob man in this city. Then he went on to talk about how the King does not control all of his subjects, but one of his own does. One of his own controls the Knave of Hearts, and whoever it is, Tetch admitted that he was a friend. Never ‘late for tea’.”

_“Do you suppose he was referring to one of Mr Falcone’s family members perhaps? And who could possibly be the Knave of Hearts?”_

“The Knave of Hearts has to be Maroni, given how he then proceeded to talk about the Knave stealing the tarts of the Bandersnatch and the Gryphon,” the billionaire continues to dutifully decipher, momentarily standing ramrod straight and allowing the nippy breeze to swarm around him. “The Bandersnatch is also from Lewis Carroll’s works. It’s a ferocious, fast creature that is quite canine like, fitting in with Dmitri Markovic’s temper and street moniker ‘Mad Dog’. As for the Gryphon – another creature found in Carroll’s works – in Irish Celtic lore it is a creature of duality, so I originally thought he was referring to Two Face. But the Celtic Gryphon is one of nobility and vigilance, yet when invoked for selfish reasons, the Gryphon brings about vengeance, ferocity, and violence – perfectly fitting the personality and circumstances of Colin O’Reilly, who’s a distant relative to an Irish noble. Not to mention in Roman texts, the Gryphon is strongly aligned with the fire god, Apollo – Two Face’s old nickname when he was DA. So that was also a hint towards the strong partnership that Dent and O’Reilly have always had with one another.”

The elderly butler hums in thought. _“Then I presume the ‘tarts’ would be the lives of Mr O’Reilly’s and Mr Markovic’s children, and how Mr Maroni, this so called ‘Knave of Hearts’ stole them?”_

“Must be, because he also talked of how the tarts spilled and were a mess – most likely referencing the blood. What I’m more concerned about is at the end, he confirmed that the Knave ‘wasn’t in his right mind’. Someone close to Falcone – close enough to convince him to let the Hatter off the hook after he murdered Emilia – is an associate to Tetch, and is controlling Maroni through Tetch’s technology. Whoever it is has to have a vendetta or a motivation against either Maroni, Markovic or O’Reilly.”

When Bruce picks up on the amused yet brief chuckle from his guardian through the communication line, he begins to think he’s mishearing things. But when Alfred Pennyworth opens his mouth to voice the source of his entertainment, Bruce relaxes a pinch and even softens his features. _“So Miss Winter’s speculation is indeed correct. A bright young woman she is.”_

Bruce Wayne has no reservations against agreeing with the Brit. “It was a shot in the dark, but she didn’t miss. That amount of intellect and curiosity may wind up with more colourful individuals catching her scent however, and I would rather her not garner the attention of any notorious criminals. She should return to investigating petty thefts and affairs.”

_“As much as I do not wish for her to be harmed by the less satisfactory individuals of Arkham and the crime families, she’s proving to be a valuable and astute ally. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her back to more mundane misdeeds and felonies.”_

“Just alert the GCPD of Tetch’s whereabouts,” Bruce intervenes, as mild-mannered as he can be. “I’ll check in on Miss Winter and update her with what I have found, see if she picked up on anything else while I’ve been away.”

A static sigh is audible from the other side. _“Of course sir.”_

As the Dark Knight reaches for the grapnel hook securely strapped to his armoured belt, Alfred signs off, abandoning Gotham’s vigilante to his new discoveries, thoughts and revelations. It doesn’t take Mr Wayne very long to reach Eve’s apartment though, not with efficient travel combination of a grapnel hook, gliding and a Batmobile.

Using the private investigator’s horrible habit of leaving the main room windows ajar to his advantage, the Dark Knight mutely slides into the darkened, settled living room, movements and body as fluid as water. Not a single device or light is on, bar a sliver of light peeking out from under the office door, like a lit cave encompassed by the dark forest. His cape loyally trails behind him as his burly legs devour the floorboards between him and the door, a heavily gloved hand grasping the door knob and freeing the light of the office to partially bask in the shadows of the main room. Peering in, he immediately spies Evangeline Winter, innocently and vulnerably passed out asleep at her main working desk.

The strands of ebony hair are sprawled around her like a black halo, the warm colours from the artificial lights making her milky, pale skin the _slightest_ bit more tanned. Her rosy, pink lips are parted as even breaths are taken and escape between them, her body limp and exhibiting loud signs of fatigue. Batman unwinds a pinch when he realizes she merely fell asleep whilst working, and isn’t dead or unconscious by other brutal means.

Hesitantly, he ventures closer to the sleeping woman but refrains from touching her. He’s reluctant upon waking her, and for good reason. Bruce Wayne knows how exhausting it can be, striving and working for justice in a city known for being immoral and corrupt. If it wasn’t for Alfred, he would’ve worked himself into an early grave many a year ago. Still, in the short time the vigilante has come to know the polite woman, he can tell that she would be most displeased should he not personally relay the discovered information to her first hand, so that she may inquire some questions of him to sate her curiosity.

Softly, yet still with that edge of authority, he stiffly clears his throat and alerts “Miss Winter.”

_For a private investigator, her reflexes are sluggish and slow. And she’s a heavy sleeper. If I was one of Maroni’s men, she would be long dead by now_ , he internally notes, keenly observing how her first reaction to an intruding voice within her household is to bury her head further into her arms folded on the desk, and unintelligibly mutter “Five more minutes.”

Bruce’s lip twitches, similar to how it has the past couple times he has encountered the North Carolinian. Tentatively, he reaches out as if calming a toddler throwing a tantrum. Calloused, gloved fingers softly grasp her shoulder, barely moving it an inch yet enough so to garner her attention. “Miss Winter, it’s time to wake up.”

“What part of ‘five more minutes’ don’t you understand?” She weakly murmurs, blinking and rubbing away the fatigue from her swirling hazel eyes. Leaning back, she stretches out smoothly like a domestic cat awakening from its nap. Eventually, squinted eyes find their way to the Caped Crusader three feet away from her, a loud sigh escaping her lips. “Sorry, that was rude. I get a tad fickle when I’m tired.”

“I’ve found what you were looking for.” The Dark Knight isn’t really one for formalities, jumping from one subject to the next. Yet he can spy how weary she truly is, so he’s even pressing to get straight to the point more than usual. That way she won’t slip in and out of consciousness whilst he’s attempting to inform her of his long-winded findings – not that he ever talks for the sake of talking. As a character, he’s always been rather laconic.

Eve is only half-conscious of the world around her at the moment, but enough so that she can faintly recollect her own findings from earlier on. “So did I. Well, some information anyway. I found this news article about Carmine Falcone’s deceased niece, Emilia Bianchi –”

“The one where Tetch raped and murdered her. Yes, I know. I found him, got the answers we need,” he almost curtly interrupts; Eve doesn’t take it to heart though. She knows he’s a rather closed off character. Heck, the guy probably doesn’t have many friends at all. Anyway, she’s put up with far ruder men, and she has enough patience to rival an angel. So snapping at the Dark Knight won’t be something she’ll be partaking in anytime soon.

“Please feel free to share with the rest of the class then.”

“He was mainly talking in Wonderland drivel, but he admitted two important things. One, that someone close to Falcone is in the very least acquainted with him, and two, that that person is the one controlling Sal Maroni with Tetch’s mind control devices,” Batman tersely informs, still stiffly standing close enough to easily reach out for her.

“Alberto Falcone.”

Batman blinks. “What?”

“Alberto Falcone,” Eve a tad spritelier announces, elegantly crossing one leg over the other. “That’s the man you’re looking for.”

His head nearly unnoticeably cocks to the side, eyes narrowed in intrigue. “What makes you say that?”

“I’ve been through Gordon’s files a hundred and one times,” Eve exaggerates, arms gesturing to the organised mess of papers and photos haphazardly spread out in front and around her. “I’ve almost memorised each head mob member’s tax records, real estate transactions, records of births and deaths within their families, court records, voter registrations, business licenses, vital statistics records, DMV records and every record and file in between, as well as read several articles on them. Recently though, I’ve been focusing on Don Maroni, which is a given, and Don Falcone. Mr Falcone is an old-fashioned mobster, reasonable but knows how to run a crime family – which is understandable I suppose, for he _is_ sixty nine years of age. That’s a rarity in itself. Most men in his industry are dead by forty five. Anyway, he’s old fashioned and he’s Italian. Family is the most important thing in his life, so the only ones who could’ve talked him out of his vengeance against Mr Tetch had to have been his own family members. They were all distraught as well, none of them would have a motive for saving Tetch, in fact, most of them most likely would’ve wanted to pull the trigger themselves. The only exception is Alberto Falcone.”

It’s difficult to discern, but Eve could swear she can see a frown pulling his brows together beneath the iconic cowl. “What’s his motive?”

“Negligence,” she provides as an agenda. “He’s the metaphorical runt of the litter. I feel sorry for him in a way. There’s so much information on Carmine and his various children running the Falcone businesses together, but in _none_ of them does he include Alberto. In fact, Carmine – according to a statement from a previously bought out cop – spent more time with Salvatore Maroni than he did Alberto, as if he cared for Maroni more than he did his own son. It’s the only explanation I can figure out. Alberto is jealous of Maroni because of the attention he gets from his father, and judging by the notes under his attributes and personality, it does seem a fitting reaction from someone like him. It’s reasonably far-fetched again, but it seemed to have done wonders for me last time. You coming in with your confirmed information only cements my theory more, but do feel free to poke around and devise another theory if you want. You _are_ the world’s greatest detective after all. You can probably do a lot better than I.”

For a few moments, a thoughtful silence hovers between the two detectives. One patiently awaiting a response from the other, and the other intently turning over the new theory in his head. Evangeline’s gut instinct and initiative has proven to be profitable before – despite there still not being any ocular proof of it, only a twisted, evasive confirmation from Jervis Tetch himself, a mentally ill criminal. This same ‘gut instinct’ seems to be sharper than most, maybe not enough to rival his own – with all his training and experience – but certainly enough to rival a few of the notorious, big time criminals. And she _did_ propose for him to poke around if he wasn’t satisfied, Bruce muses.

The vigilante must admit that her input has increased the efficiency in solving this investigation. With Joker, Scarecrow, Two Face, Riddler, Penguin, Killer Croc and Harley Quinn still at large, he has been quite preoccupied and pressed at trying to return them to the asylum as soon as he can, before any civilians are jeopardised by their elaborate schemes and crossfire. Fortunately, a few of the other colourful members of Arkham Asylum – such as Poison Ivy, Jane Doe, Firefly, Bane, the Ventriloquist, Clock King, Victor Zsasz, Mr Freeze and a several others – are already in there, Jervis Tetch just about to be added to the collection. With Eve managing to focus more time on the case, the weight of Batman’s mafia related responsibilities has lessened immeasurably.

Still, by allowing her to continue will wind up with her garnering fatal attention from a handful of the higher ups. Gordon can only shelter her from the mob’s eyes and ears at the station for so long. Bruce is already aware of the suspicions floating around the precinct. She needs to get out while she still _can_ get out. Any later and it’ll be too late.

His eyes pin on her in a way that leaves no room for discussion. “I’ll look around for some more hard evidence if I can, but as for you, you finish up here. Give everything you’ve pieced and found to Gordon and let him take over. You’re done here.”

That seems to startle Eve from her sleep deprived state. “Wh-What? You’re… No. I mean, there’s still so much to fi—”

“I know about the surveillance cameras you planted,” he sharply intervenes, taking one forceful step forward and looming over Eve from where she’s vulnerably curled up on her chair. “It’s only a matter of time until someone discovers them. Someone you don’t want attention from. You have no means to defend yourself with.”

“I have a weapons permit,” Eve meekly defends, yet is mindful of what the Caped Crusader is insinuating. “And a .45 Winchester Magnum in my bedside drawer. I can take care of myself.”

“Do you have appropriate firearms training?” He rebukes. Another step is taken. “Are you even capable of harming another human with it should it come down to it?”

Unfortunately for Eve, should she open her mouth to respond to either of those plausible questions, the answer wouldn’t be in her favour. She shifts uncomfortably, nearly cringing at how pathetic her actual reply is. “They don’t know that. Sometimes all it takes is a little acting, the right words and a convincing display—”

“Take down the cameras, give Gordon everything you’ve found and lay low for a few weeks. If there’s an emergency, contact me on this number,” Batman resolutely orders, his tone abruptly moulding into one he generally uses for intimidation. Not enough so to instil her with fear, but enough to _really_ get the message across this time.

Eve’s lips sew shut quicker than the speed of light, her eyes flickering between the alarmingly blue ones behind the dark cowl and the poorly scrawled number on the worn paper in his outstretched hand. Despite herself, Eve quirks a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “The Dark Knight… has a _phone number_?” Her smile broadens into a full blown grin as she accepts the small, crumpled paper, her petite fingertips brushing against his leathery, burly own. “What would you do if I decided to prank call you every so often?”

“I would get a new phone number,” he plainly replies, stepping away from the thirty four year old Southerner and retreating back towards the ajar door.

Like she always does when she’s anxious, Eve’s fingers habitually move to fiddle with her sterling silver ring with the heart, cross and diamond it adorns. “Try not to harm too many of the criminals until you’re _certain_ of everything, and be careful yourself. It wouldn’t do for some common, hired muscle to be known as the one who finally brought down the Batman. Not that there’s anything wrong with common, hired muscle…”

He pauses mid-stride, and nods stiffly. “Good night Miss Winter.”

Evangeline Winter smiles faintly as he disappears around the doorway, index finger softly _tap tap tapping_ on the desk to her left. “Night Knight.” So many things intrigue her about that man. She often ponders _why_ he risks his life each night – she has her reason for being a private investigator/detective, but what’s _his_? What is _his_ motive to get out of bed each day and decide to dress up in a high tech Batsuit, gliding into the night to achieve justice and help the innocents of this city?

The sigh that bypasses her lips is weak, and she has to massage her temple soothingly to ward off the oncoming headache. It would be best if she did stop now, before she garners too much attention. But dammit, she wants to help too. She can do more. She _wants_ to do more.

She effortlessly uses her feat to push against her desk and project herself on the office swivel chair towards her computer desk, fingers gliding across the keys before the chair even comes to a complete stop. Various feeds of the security footage pops up on her three lined up computer screens, but as she absentmindedly flicks through them, a small knot twists between her brows.

One of the cameras isn’t on. It isn’t even showing static. It’s _completely_ black.

_It’s only a matter of time until someone discovers them. Someone you don’t want attention from._

The Dark Knight’s warning rings unforgotten in between her ears, her chest constricting a pinch from apprehension. _That was one of the cameras I planted outside a Two Face bar, if memory serves correct._ Her index finger continues to tap tap tap. _Did one of his men find it? Or, God forbid... did **he** find it?_ Eve shakes her head. _No, you mustn’t be so overdramatic and pessimistic Eve; I probably just didn’t secure it properly._

There was only one way to be certain though. So, with a goal to set out and clear her restless conscious, Eve leapt from her overused chair, retrieved her keys and iconic white trench coat, and in hurry, she left her apartment to make sure that her camera was still undiscovered. And after an endless, nail biting taxi ride and brief walk, she got the exact answer she was praying she wouldn’t.

The camera is gone.

Standing upon the slippery dumpster – the light sleet of rain not improving it whatsoever – Eve huffs and almost allows a profanity to slip. Her delicate fingers brush over the holes in the brick wall, eyes devouring every detail she can find.

_No signs of struggle. It was unscrewed, not yanked out. Wouldn’t have been a common thug then, they don’t tend to just carry around a screwdriver with them._ She turns to scour her surroundings like a hawk, piecing together what position the thief would’ve have had to have stood if they saw her camera. _They would’ve purposefully had to take the effort to come at least within a meter of the dumpster and crane their head up forty five degrees to see it – or they could have spotted it during the day if they tried. Not many people come into Gotham alleys however, even during the day. The light of the sun doesn’t guarantee safety; in fact, it tends to be more crime wrought than the night these days, with all the crooks trying to avoid the Dark Knight._

She gracefully hops down; gaze honing in on anything the perp may have dropped. She spies one of the screws that held the camera in place, swiftly bending down and examining it between her manicured fingers. _Once again, no signs of struggle. They used a screwdriver for sure, and not just any screwdriver, an **exact** match for this particular head. There’s no chips, no scratches. It was screwed out perfectly. Who coincidentally has an **exact** match for this screw when they most likely only packed for a night on the town? How would they have known to look in that **exact** spot?_

Eve doesn’t know. And she really doesn’t like not knowing.

She sticks around and dutifully searches for anything else that may be of use, yet nothing substantial appears to her. With a slowly maturing and slightly impairing nausea progressively consuming her, she absentmindedly phones up another cab and returns to her humble abode before catching the eye of any wary mobsters still lurking about.

If she wasn’t so enraptured by the camera mystery, she might have noticed the slight scuffs around the key hole in her door. If she wasn’t so focused on who may have discovered that camera, she might have noticed how her door was actually already unlocked. If she wasn’t belittling herself for being so reckless and careless, she might have even noticed how an alarming shade of green is dominating the entirety of lounge.

But she didn’t notice any of these things you see, so when Eve finally closes and locks the door behind her, automatically hanging up her pristine but worn down coat, she is entirely unaware of the notorious, certifiably insane criminal mastermind known as the Riddler sprawled out on her couch as if he owns the place.

She only becomes aware of him, when he speaks.

“Riddle me this; why would a private investigator sign off her death wish to solve a case regarding the largest urban crime war this city has seen in over a decade? Answer; because _she_ was the one who saw where it began. _She_ was the one, who ran and tattled to the Bat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	7. Speaking In Riddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention I love Batman's villains? Because I do. A lot.

_“It’s strange how we find the best of friends in the most unexpected people.”_ – Aly Hunter

These days, very few things in life truly surprise Evangeline Mendax Winter. For when one has an incredibly sharp intuition and wit, even unconsciously, one can foretell when danger or the unknown is near. This is the kind of person Eve is. She’s sharp. Observant. Intuitive. Yet even with these qualities and the obvious signs of a break in – which she is only just identifying now – she would never have predicted that the Riddler, of all people, would be the one to be behind it all. And she _certainly_ never predicted that he would be nonchalantly sprawled across her lounge – which looks rather small when occupied by a man so tall –, as smug as a peacock flaunting its feathers.

“There’s a certifiably insane, highly notorious criminal on my lounge,” Eve distractedly mumbles to herself, unsure if she’s merely apathetic towards the revelation, or in a mentally fragmenting state of shock. Perhaps both.

Edward Nygma’s conceited grin only broadens at Eve’s dazed condition. One arm haphazardly is laid across the back of the couch, the other across the armrest as the adjoined hand skilfully twirls his iconic, golden question mark cane. “Perfectly sound observation there Miss Winter. I was anticipating a more animated response, but I suppose I _do_ prefer this over the screaming, blubbering and crying that most imbecilic Gotham women display. I finished you’re lemon tarts by the way. Were they home made? If so, you must give me the recipe.”

Eve remains where she firmly stands, and although she’s on high alert, she adorns the facade of a nonchalant woman. Her hazel orbs skim back and forth – almost faster than the Riddler can comprehend – and devour any miniscule details she can from his body language, attire and dialogue so far.

_Relaxed. Placid. Unconcerned. Cocky. Unthreatening. Clearly doesn’t perceive me as a threat, and isn’t here to threaten me – well, it’s not his primary intention anyway. Very clean and orderly. Takes pride in his appearance. Doesn’t necessarily point towards OCD, but judging by the few crimes of his I’ve read and how he’s laid them out, it’s more than likely. Egotistical. Possibly could have rooted from the power he holds over common civilians and his blatant reputation. Files say he’s always been pompous though, so perhaps it stems from negligence of his intelligence as a child? Rebecca would know._ Eve takes note of the very thin layer of red brick dust layered over a few of his fingers. _Matches the red brick dust of the building my camera was screwed into. That, and he fits the MO of whoever supposedly stole my camera. **He** found my camera. Clearly here to confront me about it._

“If you have it on you, I would dearly like it back please,” Eve politely requests, steeling her nerves incredibly well and keeping herself level headed.

One eyebrow arches on his face, and Eve can tell he knows what she’s referring to despite him remaining seemingly coy. “Like what back? Your recipe? My dear, I do believe I just asked _you_ for that—”

“Please don’t play stupid, it’s unbecoming of someone with your level of intelligence,” the private investigator kindly requests, progressively making her way into the kitchen whilst not entirely turning her back to the convicted felon. “The camera. _My_ camera. The one you quite rudely stole.”

At this point, Nygma’s smirk is wide enough to give the Joker a run for his money. “And what gave you the impression that _I_ took it?”

Unlike Edward’s feigned innocence beforehand, Eve’s is purely authentic, in spite of the fact that she’s about to put the rogue down a peg or two. “No offense Mr Nygma, but you’re a tad careless when it comes to leaving a trail to follow. One of the screws were left behind with no scuff marks on it, so someone had to have a perfectly fitted screwdriver casually on hand to remove my camera – the absence of signs of struggle in the wall also indicate that. Not many people who frequent a Two Face bar conveniently have a variety of screwdrivers and most likely other tools on hand, you being an exception. Paired with the light layer of red brick dust that is lathering your finger tips – red brick dust that perfectly matches the red brick wall where my camera was positioned – it seems rather obvious to me that it was you. Why else would one of Gotham’s Most Wanted confront me in my living room not too long after the disappearance of one of my cameras, other than to sate his curiosity?”

The thirty-four-year-old doesn’t know what she said in particular that has seemed to satisfy the criminal mastermind, but whatever it may be, Edward Nygma now seems more so content than smug. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Perhaps,” Eve acknowledges, yet she nods pointedly at his shoes. “But the soles and dimensions of your shoes match the light imprint in the dirt and dust outside the bar as well. That, and I can see the outline of my camera’s memory card in your right pocket.”

“You seem to base a lot of your theories and verdicts off of circumstantial evidence, this being an exception,” Edward admits, sitting upright and lightly drumming his fingers over the leg that has come to cross over his other one. “You also accept a lot of theories, however strange they may be, before honing in on a few in particular.”

“I like to keep an open mind,” the raven haired woman confesses, flipping her kettle on. “You should try it some time.”

“The person with a mind that is too open gets a lot of worthless ideas dumped into it, and I would personally like to avoid that.”

“It’s alright to have an open mind if you know what to let in.”

“For you maybe, but the people of this city? They’re not intellectually adept enough. Many of the so-called open minds should be closed for repairs.”

Eve smiles amusedly at his last comment, even though she shouldn’t, and doesn’t even bother at attempting to cover it up. After a few moments however, she registers his previous statement and how he labelled her as an exception to this. “You said for me ‘maybe’. Does that mean you view me as more intellectually adept than the citizens of this city?”

“Nowhere near in range of my own mass intellect of course, but so far you haven’t exactly given the impression of a hairless ape, already outranking nearly everyone else I’ve come into contact with in this city,” Edward unabashedly admits, having to stroke his own ego before relenting into an actual compliment. Which she so far rightfully deserves, he surmises. After all, she had hardly realised he was in her apartment for thirty seconds before she pieced together that he was the one who stole her camera. All because of a screw, an imprint and unwashed hands. Signs that no ordinary person – let alone a Gothamite – would have ever noticed.

Ah, to finally meet another intellectual! He mustn’t be so hasty to label her as an intellect he realises, but she has so far demonstrated a very promising display. And good _Lord_ is it hard to find a rational, sharp mind outside the calibre the criminal underworld has to offer. Not that there’s anything exceptionally wrong about criminal masterminds, but Edward can only handle so many never ending, pretentious rambles and ravings about fear, Alice in Wonderland and how Roman Sionis has now pissed of the duality themed crime boss. To meet someone intelligent with a lifestyle that isn’t entirely boring and doesn’t wish to kill, arrest or run away screaming from him is quite refreshing. Anyone else, and he wouldn’t give them the time of day. Maybe even toss them into one of his death traps. Perhaps a lower, base part of him is acting this way due to her not only being partially intelligent, but by society’s standards, rather attractive as well.

No matter. He’s not here for her intellect or appearance. Oh no. He’s here to, as the detective so eloquently put it, ‘sate his own curiosity’.

“You are right about wanting to satisfy my curiosity though,” the Riddler admits. “I already know a lot about you, but not everything. Oh, and I’ll have a black tea thank you. Two sugars.”

Eve isn’t fussed about complying with his rudely stated request, for she’s more focused on what he may know about her. She can obviously tell he knows her name, address and probably other crucial details on her dossier, but _how_ is what she longs to know. “I may disclose something more, depending on whether or not you inform of how you found me and how you knew the camera belonged to me in the first place.”

The Cheshire Cat grin works its way back onto his face. “Figure it out. You’re a smart girl. Well, at least you give the impression of a moderately adept intellect anyway. It would be rather unfortunate for both of us if you _weren’t_.” Eve’s nerves begin to slightly surface again at the surprisingly dark turn Nygma’s face takes towards the end. She vaguely recalls reading about how... _unpleasant_ he is when he believes himself to be in the presence of ‘Neanderthals’, ‘ignoramuses’ and ‘cheaters’. He clearly has a superiority complex, so she therefore _must_ keep him entertained. If he gets bored, then that is certainly bad news for her. Unfortunately for Evangeline, Batman’s phone number just so happens to be back in the study, past the lounge which he is calmly occupying.

So, she sets about benevolently preparing the tea, all the while deciphering through clues to figure out how he found out it was her.

_I was careful. Left nothing to track back to me – fingerprints, strands of hair, sweat, **nothing**. Had to be something else._ She attempts to put herself in the criminal’s shoes as she absentmindedly pours the scalding water into the ornate teapot. _Edward Nygma. The infamous Riddler. Is notorious for his puzzle based death traps and riddles, hence his nickname ‘the Prince of Puzzles’. Highly skilled with computer science. Highly skilled with forensics. Highly skilled with hacking. Highly skilled with tech – **wait**. _Eve pauses. _Technology. He constantly works with technology. He turns it all inside out, rearranging and remastering it constantly. It would be easy for him to identify computer parts and other technology from a variety of companies and brands, it **is** his forte. There must be a certain brand of CCTV surveillance cameras that the other criminals and the police officers of this city use that set me apart from them. Could he have possible tracked down the dealer I bought them off?_

She casts him a sideways glance, having fixed up the tea tray with warm scones, a classy tea set, cream and jam for the scones, sugar and a couple tea spoons as she was deliberating her busy thoughts. The private investigator cautiously but casually ambles over and sets it down on the austere coffee table before the lounge, seating herself in the lone, softly cushioned armchair beside it. “You identified it. Tracked it back to the dealer. Wouldn’t have been hard from there. All you would have to do is skim through the sales records to find who had purchased that camera recently, and most likely in a large bundle. My name and a couple of my details would’ve been in there as well. From there, you would’ve just hacked a government database to find my dossier with your very proficient hacking skills.”

“Told you you’d figure it out,” the Riddler manages to condescendingly compliment, frowning when he realises she left the sugar for him to put into his cup himself. _I suppose I prefer doing it myself anyway,_ he muses. _I always do it more accurately._

Eve peacefully pours her own tea, despite warily casting the fugitive several glances out of the corner of her eyes. Apprehension swells and churns in her chest and stomach like an undigested meal. Slivers of fear cling to her like a cheap perfume. The North Carolinian is beyond grateful that out of all the criminally insane individuals this city houses, she’s greeted by the presence of one who is more reasonable, not as physically threatening and less mentally unstable than the others. Characters like Victor Zsasz, Killer Croc and of course, the one and only Joker would chill and horrify her to the bone. They can’t be reasoned with – perhaps Croc, but _highly_ unlikely. Eve would try of course, but how fruitful her endeavours would turn out merely depends on the mood she may catch them in.

“So, you want to know what the camera is for.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but to start the topic, _something_ had to be uttered.

He nods, teaspoon twirling the tea like a dark hurricane or whirlpool. “I’ve only gotten so far with my findings, and even though I preferably don’t like being told the answer, there are empty spaces that don’t seem to fit.”

“What have you found?”

_There it is_ , Eve scrutinises, watching his face morph. _That all-knowing smile_. The Prince of Puzzles has adorned it for almost the entirety of his stay so far, and a simple smile – when worn long enough, how it’s worn and _when_ it is worn – tells a lot about a person. _He doesn’t like being upstaged. He likes being right. Proving him wrong may provoke him._ She placidly blows on her tea. _Comply, and he may leave me unscathed. After all, I seem to interest him. If he can’t figure me out, that makes me a puzzle. He **loves** puzzles._

“Your file said you’re a private investigator,” he assuredly begins, smirking lips momentarily meeting his tea cup. “Which is obvious to see now. So, why would a private investigator take an interest in the reprehensible Two Face? There were a few theories to build on, but the prominent one was the feuding crime families. That’s the largest event plaguing Gotham at the moment, an event that so happens to include Dent. Yet, it couldn’t have been one of the other families, for the ones that possess any hostility and distaste towards him at the current time can’t even get near his businesses. They also don’t use that brand of camera. If they had hired you, they would’ve supplied you with their own tech, but they didn’t. The GCPD however... now _that_ showed promise.”

“How so? I’ve been careful.”

“Very much so my dear,” Nygma acquiesces, nodding his head impressed. “But when word spreads of lazy, idiotic simpletons that call themselves police officers efficiently doing their job, one grows suspicious.”

“Could’ve been Batman,” Eve indicates, swiftly spreading jam and cream onto her warm scone.

“He was otherwise occupied with more pressing criminal acts when this efficiency began,” Edward shoots her down, only justifying Eve’s observation further about how he gets off on proving himself. “Therefore a private investigator is spying on a notorious criminal during a gang war, and at the same time, the GCPD seems to be suspiciously completing their jobs competently _and_ have a surprisingly large amount of evidence regarding the mob, despite most of them being paid off by said crime families. By this stage the Dark Knight _could_ be helping them, but a little birdy of mine in the precinct just so happened to spot you entering and exiting the Commissioner’s office on more than one occasion, including recently. All they needed was a photo of you – which I happily provided – to confirm my theory for me. _You_ are aiding the dear Commissioner with this case. _You_ are the one, that was there that night.”

Eve’s movements still, the accusation interrupting her previously collected façade. Just like that the criminal mastermind creates a hitch within her veneer, like a ripple in disturbed water. And just like how a ripple in disturbed water grows, so does her anxiety with each bullseye Nygma nails. “How could you _possibly_ know about that?”

If she were a lesser, snappier human being, Evangeline Winter would want to permanently remove that presumptuous grin playing at his lips right now. “Someone was there that night. Someone that leaked all the juicy details of what played out to the Bat and the GCPD. The hired muscle that were there have tightly locked lips, and the likelihood of Salvatore Maroni informing the GCPD that he shot two people in cold blood is ascertainably low. It just so happens that local surveillance caught you in the area around the time of death. Coincidence? Not likely.”

By this point the tea in Nygma’s mug has dwindled dangerously low, and half of his jam and cream scone is eaten, him having taken modest bites between explanations. Eve on the other hand, has long finished her pastry, as well as her second cup of tea. Yet as her tea diminished, her dread rose. The ripple has gotten larger.

She daintily sits in her cushioned armchair, spine rigid despite her trying to lean back and relax into the cushioning. One arm is draped stiffly over a worn arm rest, the other toying with her silver ring. Edward can effortlessly read her unease in her posture, in spite of her eyes – which are generally the most revealing detail of them all – remaining exactly the same. Calm. Impassive. Gentle. _Kind_. Now _that_ irritated him. He’s a highly wanted, flagrant, precarious criminal – many would even say unstable. Why is _she_ being gentle and kind? Even if it is only through her eyes.

“You seem to have filled in the blanks yourself,” Eve finally pipes up after a while, shattering the silence. “I’m unsure of what information you additionally require.”

Edward bites his tongue, despising having to ask for an answer. “Why?”

Eve blinks. “Pardon?”

“ _Why!?_ ” _There’s_ the instability. Enough to make the North Carolinian jump. “ _Why_ are you foolishly endangering your life to stop a feud that you are no part of!? What reason could you _possibly_ possess that is motivational enough to drive you to entangle yourself with some of the most dangerous criminals this city has to offer?! _Why_!?” Eve stammers – yet not blubberingly – at the convicted felon who has risen to furiously tower over her, like a thundering storm cloud accompanied by the lightning of his speech.

“Because…” she’s aware of how pathetic she must appear right now, but it’s not as if she can help it all that much. She _is_ relatively more collected than when she jolted before, but not as much as she wishes she could be. “People are dying. Good and bad people. Innocent and guilty people. Civilians and criminals. I couldn’t care less what label society gives them, they’re _people_. I know that the percentage of people who couldn’t give a damn for the lives of others is alarmingly high in this city – you to be included in that number – but _I_ am not one of them. I _do_ care if people die, regardless of what heinous crimes they’ve committed or how selfish they may be. Whether they are criminals, the higher society, the working class or the homeless. People are people, and each life is worth something. I apologize if my answer is bland, disappointing and doesn’t meet the standards you were searching for, but I’m not going to fabricate a false response for the sake of sating your curiosity.”

Edward Nygma looks at her. _Really_ looks at her. Unwittingly, he had previously made the same dismissive mistake of overlooking how much she is really worth, unable to fathom the idea of the far too accepting private investigator lasting five minutes out in the proper, harsh world of Gotham. He can see it now though, plain as day. And on top of it all, there is one misstep that the Dark Knight did take which the Riddler has been careful not to.

He hasn’t underestimated her capabilities.

It’s easy to perceive that a wit such as her own is dangerous in a city like this, especially from someone like her. Someone who is a nobody, a face in the crowd. Someone who is quiet, innocent, polite. The least likely person to delicately yet accurately dismantle a sturdy, versed crime syndicate. So, is she dangerous? Most certainly, Edward can tell. The Dark Knight knows that as well, but as mentioned before, he’s tried to put her on the sidelines. She’s found as much necessary information as she supposedly could without catching any significantly unwanted attention, so Batman is done with her. He doesn’t want her jumping into the deep end before she can even fully swim.

But Edward knows she’s capable of even _more_.

Sure, her answer was rather banal. Boring. It’s not as if those same human lives she’s determined to protect would ever return the favour. They wouldn’t even care less. In spite of all of that, Edward could tell that she knows. She _knows_ that the people and criminals of this city would never show her the same curtesy, but she still yearns to defend them, out of what? The kindness of her heart? He nearly scoffs at the absurdity of it. _She should consider some self-preservation before participating in such deeds,_ the Riddler contently ponders. _That **is** the only way to survive here. Who would ever risk their life out of something as preposterous as decency and benevolence? _Edward knows the answer to his own question though. In fact, there are _two_ answers, but the other one happens to be a cheating, imbecilic ignoramus who dresses like a flying rodent and inaccurately holds the title of ‘world’s greatest detective’.

Staring down his nose at the ebony haired detective curled up vulnerably in her armchair, Edward Nygma mulls over the Dark Knight detective with distaste. _She could probably figure out as much as that dimwit could without that aid of high tech gadgets, laughable sidekicks and a million dollar, military style car. Speaking of which…._

“How much do you know?”

Eve blinks, but not dumbly. Edward almost smiles at that. “I’m sorry… are you referring to my findings regarding the case?” It took her a few moments, but his query clicked eventually. Eve’s just marginally dazed at how abrupt his topic change was. One moment, she’s explaining her motives – hoping he won’t murder her for a simple answer – with a thundering expression brewing on his face, and the next, he’s placidly calm again, intrigued by to what extent her knowledge stretches. The silence that followed her explanation was rather long and heavy, as if gravity had immeasurably increased to weigh her down like an anvil. During that silence, she noticed the certifiably insane man at war with himself, face scrunching in loathing, tensing, softening, furrowing and so on and so forth.

_Must have been deliberating the situation or something of the like,_ Eve unsurely concludes. _As long as he doesn’t decide to put a bullet through my head, he can contemplate until his heart is content. He’s been somewhat docile so far however._ She omits his one outburst, putting it down to a flare of irritation for being unable to solve an enigma. Eve knows how _that_ feels.

Unfortunately, Eve doesn’t know if she feels comfortable expounding the information he’s currently inquiring of her. It is, to some degree, classified police information. Some of it. And she is aware of his on and off business partnership with men like Jonathan Crane, the Joker, Jervis Tetch – who was most likely left in an unsatisfactory condition after the Caped Crusader’s ‘interrogation’ – and more pointedly, Harvey Dent. What if he is merely going to run off to Dent and sell all of this information? She can’t risk that. It’d jeopardise not only her own investigation, but the joint investigation of Batman and the GCPD. _Oh, and my own safety of course_ , Eve has to remind herself. _But I’ve been risking that since I began this profession._

“I don’t know if I’m at liberty to say,” Eve warily but serenely divulges, vigilant of his unstable mood and occasionally unpredictable reactions.

Edward sighs in exasperation, as if he’s remembered that he forgot to turn the stove off before leaving home. “Now now, you were being _so_ cooperative before this. Let’s try and keep that up Miss Winter, for _your_ sake.”  The flippancy he pertains as he casually slips out his handgun to cock it at the private investigator catches her by surprise, but only for a second. She should’ve expected such a response.

Eve swallows, noticeably. Edward grins. “I still don’t know if I can expound that type of information to a notoriously dangerous, ingenious criminal.”

His smirk widens, brimming chillingly from ear to ear. “So loyal. So ethically driven. So _pure_. Society would probably be a better place with more people like you,” the Riddler unabashedly confesses, gun unwavering. “Even cares for the low life thugs off the streets. The men who pilfer, plunder and purge their way through the supposed innocents of a rotten, long lost city. What about me? If given the chance, would you save _me_ from death?”

“Of course.” Eve doesn’t hesitate. Not when her morals are so firmly imbedded in her being, like another heart.

His eyebrow arches. “Even if I shot and left you to bleed out right now? All alone? Even if you know that I kill the stupid cretins – the unfortunate excuses of human beings – that this city breeds?”

She nods, despite her chest constricting tighter than a python. “Death is irreversible. And it’s not my place to make a judgment on who lives and dies. I’m not God. If I can save someone, I will.”

The Prince of Puzzles narrows his gaze to razor sharp slits, analysing Evangeline Winter with an astute scrutiny. _Kindness_. _How does anyone in this city still own such a thing?_ Edward doesn’t know, but he is admittedly surprised to hear her second response, even after the blatant threat.

He sighs and lowers his gun, mildly startled that his temper hasn’t flared again. It generally does when he doesn’t get his way. “I don’t plan on informing anyone of your findings, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I honestly couldn’t care less if you defeated and outsmarted all the crime families in the city. It’s not _my_ problem. I’m merely interested in the extent of your gathered information.”

Eve has to reel in her shock. “You _wouldn’t_?”

He snorts, tucking the alarming firearm back under his blazer. “Of course not. Unlike you, I don’t do deeds out of the profound generosity of my heart. Not to mention it would be admittedly amusing, observing the vain crime lords entangled in their own strings, brought down by a single, insignificant woman. It’s hysterical.”

The hesitation in still apparent, Edward can tell. Cue another sigh. “And I could just shoot you, despite it being the dullest path to take.”

_He says he won’t tell,_ Eve mulls over, still angelically curled up in the armchair. _And there’s the whole ‘shooting’ me con as well. But he **is** a criminal, known to be affiliated with Dent._ Her eyes momentarily flutter in exhaustion. _What would Batman think if he knew? It would be foolish to let the **Riddler** know of my evidence and speculations. _An abrupt light bulb lights up above her head. _Wait. A criminal. He’s a criminal. What did Jim tell me once? ‘All criminals seem to operate on a similar mental scale in this city’. Could Mr Nygma possibly…?_

“One additional condition,” Eve pipes up, tone final as her index finger is held up in warning. “I want your input on it.”

The more this woman talks, the more she intrigues him. Even Edward can’t deny his moment of evident shock. “ _My_ input?”

“You know the criminals of this city far better than anyone in the GCPD does and ever could, even Batman himself. You’ve seen some of them when they’re docile, angry, possibly depressed, calm, free, locked up, etcetera. None of the police force have ever sat down to have a casual drink with a rogue or a high member of a crime family before – but _you_ probably have, even if it’s only been once. You’re smarter than them as well, and I don’t just mean the GCPD.” _Stroke his ego Eve,_ she continues to remind herself. _Stroke his ego and he’ll be satisfied. He’ll spill more information at a more comfortable level._ “Your opinion would be greatly appreciated, and would undoubtedly advance the case further.”

Eve realises she most likely needs a strong reality check – she’s asking the Riddler for his input after all, and letting him in on the case – but she can’t help it. Not really. When a case such as this has got it’s claws so deep into her flesh, she can’t back out now. As much as she despises and regrets neglecting Jim and the Dark Knight’s orders, she _can’t_ stop now. She won’t break the law to get what she needs, she already told the Caped Crusader that, yet obtaining a slight amount of help from a lawbreaker himself – if one could count it as help, it is just an opinion after all – now _that’s_ doable.

Edward doesn’t take long to weigh the pros and cons, after swelling like an arrogant peacock at her compliments. He was planning on remarking on her findings either way. She couldn’t have found _that_ much, whence considering that the North Carolinian hasn’t even resided in the city for a full six months and the GCPD is rather helpless in their information gathering and resources most of the time. That’s evident enough by how they endow the safety of their city into the hands of a single barbaric and short-sighted man.

So, Edward sees no harm in entertaining her feeble condition. If worse comes to worse, he could just shoot her or leave her for the mobs to take care of her. It won’t be long until they’re aware of her involvement.

“Of course my dear,” he suavely confirms, a hidden agenda twinkling behind his jade orbs. “I would be delighted.”

Eve prudently and leisurely directs him towards her office, never _entirely_ turning her back to the rogue. It would be foolish to do so. By the time she’s unhurriedly opened the door and permitted him entrance within, Edward has to hide the jarring yet calm daze he’s thrown into by the state of the room.

Photos, files, sticky notes, thread, newspaper clippings and everything in between is _everywhere_. The floor seems to have escaped the wrath of the organized mess, but every desk and surface has suffered no such luck. Even the walls are littered with the investigation. The pin board is past the point of full, so photos, notes and clippings are stuck to the wall all around him – hell, sticky notes attached to strings are limply dangling from the fan and _ceiling_. To say that Edward is mildly impressed with her dedication and bombardment of speculations would be a _slight_ understatement.

Eve observes his blank face, devoid of any prominent emotions bar the marginally parted lips and tamed surprise hidden behind his eyes. She expected such a reaction from someone like the Commissioner, but to spot subtle hints of it from a man such as the Riddler is warming to say the least.

“I began with several different theories after watching the event transpire that night,” Eve begins, striding over to the main writing desk adjacent to her computer desk and sifting through various papers. “But I tried not to jump to conclusions, or come up with too many more theories. It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”

“Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet,” Edward rattles off the source of the quote, admiring how on top of everything so far, she may also be sophisticatedly educated in proper literature.

She nods, momentarily throwing him a smile. “Correct. At any rate, I had rather hit a wall with the evidence I had. I was only relying on what the police discovered and putting together speculations from that. I needed _more_ though. Therefore, I frequented a cafe that belongs to Two Face in hopes of clearing my head, in a prime position as well, when it just so happens three of his men couldn’t find a spare seat and sat down with me to eat.”

“How are you sure they were his men?” The Riddler inquires, lightly grasping and turning over one of the sticky notes hanging from the wall.

Eve nearly scoffs at that. “Wore expensive suits, evidently work in well paying jobs. Carried themselves with the precision and posture of military men, but military men don’t have a well enough salary to wear such suits and a Rolex wrist watch. Suit jackets were puffed out more than necessary too, as if they were hiding something. Most likely a gun, because it was a Two Face cafe. Supposedly work in a security firm, which is one of the oldest mob cover ups in the book. Pair it all together and they must’ve been his men.”

“Moving forward,” the private investigator continues with her explanation, neglecting the slight trailing off topic. “Whether they realized it or not, they give me some useful insight and a new way in which I could look into the case; what if Maroni didn’t do it purposefully? What if he was being controlled? It was hardly anything to go on, but something just felt right about it –”

“Summarise this, please,” Nygma sharply intervenes, growing tiresome of her babbling, no matter how informative it may be. “If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.”

“Haven’t heard someone quote Albert Einstein in a while,” Eve softly admits, a small smile working its way onto her lips in spite of the fact it’s there because of an immoral, dangerous man. “Long story short; current evidence and circumstance points towards Alberto Falcone being at fault. Through the aid of Jervis Tetch, he controlled Maroni in order to ruin him and harm the other families in the process, as well as his own father.”

Edward remains impassive for several long, daunting moments, which to Eve, feel like small eternities. Eventually, she doesn’t know whether to balk and run at his reappearing Cheshire grin, or feel satisfied that he appears moderately pleased.

Hands in his emerald pockets, Edward Nygma sedately strolls over to where Eve is currently standing ramrod still, as if a pole is wielded to her spine. A freshly printed article of Jervis Tetch’s murder of Emilia Bianchi is resting in her petite hands, eliciting an even wider smile from the certifiably insane criminal. “Well done detective.”

Eve’s mouth hangs ajar in perplexity. “Pardon?”

“I said well done,” Edward reiterates, peering down at her contented, yet even that seems pompous. “I must say, I am surprised that you’ve gotten this far – both alive and with authentic information. Of course, _I’ve_ known of this for quite some time now, one of the benefits of being the smartest man in Gotham, but I must say that I am impressed. A sentiment which I don’t feel or admit often.”

“How do _you_ know?” The detective is tremendously stumped. _How **does** he know? He can’t have had all this information._

“Come now detective,” Edward condescendingly tsks, shaking his head haughtily. “Don’t look so surprised. All it took was one sitting with Tetch for me to figure it out. I just wanted to know how much _you_ knew. You didn’t disappoint me Miss Winter. But, if you have everything deciphered and sorted...” he takes one, long step towards her, nearly allowing no breathing room between them. “... _why_ are you still clinging to this case? There’s nothing more that you can do. The rest is left in the legal jurisdiction of the GCPD, and that blubbering buffoon the Bat.”

Eve swallows, voice softer than a mythical siren. “Yes, Alberto is at fault. Yes, he needs to be arrested and held accountable. But...” she breathes heavily, willing herself to maintain firm eye contact. “He shouldn’t be the focus right now. What he did was horrible, but it’s _done_. He’s the puppet master, but his puppet is the one doing all the first hand damage. Before we can go after him, Don Maroni has to be dealt with, or even more damage with arise because of it.”

“You want to figure out Maroni’s next move,” Edward analyses, plucking the article from her steady hands and giving it a quick once over before carelessly tossing it aside. “But the dear Commissioner is holding you back.”

“Yes.” _He doesn’t need to know it’s more accurately the Batman_ , Eve comments internally. _If he knew I was in cahoots with the Dark Knight, he may not be so agreeable towards me._

“Well, you did ask for my input,” the Prince of Puzzles reminds her cheerfully, finally backing away and casually perching himself on the creaky, wooden desk. “So I suppose you can consider me your one-time consultant.”

“You actually plan on helping me?” Eve incredulously asks, taken aback. “And not... killing me?”

Edward’s brows furrow as his expression moulds into offence, as if the very idea is blasphemous. “After all this time spent bonding, you don’t trust me?” His hand hurtfully covers the breast pocket of his immaculate blazer. “That hurts detective. But if you require a reason as to why, it’s plainly simple. I only kill the brainless, hairless apes of this city in order to purify the gene pool. Them, and petty, bothersome criminals who get in my way.” He bitterly bites out the last two sentences, turning slightly more pleasant afterwards. “Which you are neither. In fact, you’re the bipolar opposite of both. And now that you’re thrown in the midst of this discrepancy between the crime families, this may actually prove to be interesting. Not to mention amusing. So no, I have no reason to kill you, so long as you don’t give me one.”

Eve brushes a stray, charcoal coloured strand of hair delicately behind her ear, regarding the Riddler with an intrigued eye. Bad as he may be, Eve has... dare she say... so far _enjoyed_ his company. She rarely meets someone intellectually adept enough to sustain a stimulating, vastly knowledgeable conversation, not that there’s anything wrong with regular conversations. It’s just refreshing having an intelligent conversation every once in a while.

She won’t make the mistake of dropping her guard however. That’s the thing about smart men; they’re often more dangerous than the physically imposing ones. Therefore friendly she may be, but she _won’t_ be trusting.

“Very well,” the North Carolinian says. “What would you suggest?”

Evangeline is beginning to wonder if Mr Nygma is receiving tips from the Joker on how to grin eerily. Though, Edward’s smirks are rather more smug and pompous than eerie. “Every high up criminal has certain establishments that they can and can’t frequent. There is only _one_ establishment which you can find almost any criminal having a drink at.”

Already his proposition was causing her stomach to churn, as if it is trying to digest rocks. She should’ve seen his suggestion coming from a mile away, and no matter how treacherous it may be, Eve already knows she’ll take it up. She’s too far in not to.

Edward Nygma tilts his head inquisitively, eyes flickering up and down her form in question. “Ever heard of the Iceberg Lounge?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	8. New Friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I'm concerned about how in character some of the characters are in this chapter, but I think they're alright? Yeah, they're alright (I hope). Always love to hear your thoughts and feedback!

_“I am interested in imperfections, quirkiness, insanity, unpredictability. That’s what we really pay attention to anyway. We don’t talk about planes flying; we talk about them crashing.”_   ~ Tibor Kalman

She doesn’t know what she’s doing there. Well, she _does_ know what she’s doing there, but she’s beginning to wonder if her sanity should come into question. Anxiety builds inside her progressively, like lingering drops slowly filling up a bucket of water. Eventually it will overflow, but for the moment being, it is relatively shallow.

Edward Nygma’s helpful suggestion did not go unheard to Evangeline Winter. In fact, after he left, she chastised herself for not even thinking of it herself. Not only is Oswald Cobblepot’s Iceberg Lounge the number one place for the higher mass of the criminal underworld to take a night off and enjoy themselves, but Cobblepot _himself_ is the most infamous – albeit expensive – black markets dealer in Gotham.

It’s the nineteenth day since the deaths of Sean O’Reilly and Alexandra Markovic, and just that morning after the Riddler had long left her modest apartment, had the devastating news broke out. There had been a chaotic shooting between Maroni and Markovic men last night, whilst she was chatting up the certifiably insane criminal. Sixteen mob men dead, eight civilians dead, twelve cops dead, and several more of each severely injured. This is _exactly_ what Eve has been striving to avoid, and to know that she was quite possibly _enjoying_ herself as she conversed with one of Arkham’s more colourful characters as this happened made her feel indubitably nauseous. She doesn’t have anything against the egregious Riddler, especially now that he may have bestowed her with a new lead, but knowing she could have possibly prevented so much death beforehand instilled a newfound shame within her.

The Joker had struck last night as well. She expected he was going to turn up sooner than later, with the mob war stealing his limelight and all. Yet he’s been uncharacteristically tame for a while now, and that concerns the North Carolinian. Eve hardly has the time to focus on the Clown Prince of Crime however, particularly now with all that is transpiring with the families.

The idea that this could still conceivably be a trap has not fled from Eve’s mind. Even as she adjusts the white, halter neck cocktail dress with the long keyhole in the middle of her chest, and comes in tightly at the bodice but remains flowy from the waist down to the middle of her thigh, she mulls over the prospect. _He could be trying to gain my trust. Trick me._ The unforgiving, nippy night air slaps at her partially bare back. _He has more to gain out of helping someone like Two Face and receiving a favour in return than helping me free of charge._ Then again, it wasn’t _entirely_ free of charge Eve has to remind herself. She had to show him everything she had so far gathered in order for the suggestion.

Her equally white strappy pumps _click clack click clack_ against the harsh concrete ground as the bouncer finally permits her entry. She had to call a favour in from one of her old clients to even get into this place at such short notice.

Eve knew she had to look nice, and even with the classy white dress, spotless heels, some stunning silver jewellery to match (her ring being the only real silver and diamond) and her freshly curled, short raven hair with the right half braided, she feels rather out of place amongst so much wealth, gold and designer clothes. A poser amongst queens and kings.

This isn’t true, obviously. And her inadequacy is short lived, for others’ opinions have never really bothered her much before. Everyone is a tad self-conscious from time to time though.

One thing that she _does_ seem to have down packed more than most of the others in this room is elegance. Each step – no, each _glide_ her long legs take are flawless and effortless. A natural, slight sway of her hips accompany her stride. _That_ is something she is proud of. She may not have the largest breasts or the curviest body, but her slightly toned build paired with a nicely shaped behind has always given her a subtle, alluring sway. Something she doesn’t usually pay mind to, but may pay off in an establishment such as this.

No one gives her much attention, only a handful of men glancing her way every once in a while to give her an appreciative glimpse. Her eyes are like a hawk though, and are too preoccupied with deftly devouring each face in hopes to recognise someone of use to her. What she _didn’t_ count on, was a face that is still far too fresh and far too familiar to reappear so soon.

 “Well, you don’t clean up too badly.”

Once again, Eve finds herself caught off guard by the Rogues Gallery’s arguably brightest mind.

She stares at the green criminal momentarily stunned, grasping at the straws of her composure and modifying it back into place accordingly. “Care to tell me what you are doing here?” Eve politely demands, the new discovery not making her angry per say, just slightly apprehensive. What if he blew her cover? What if he’s here to drag her off to a mob man? What if this is trap, _just_ as she had considered?

“This isn’t a trap, if that is what you’re deliberating,” Edward attempts to half-heartedly console her, yet it sounds more exasperated than assuring. “Like I have previously confessed; you intrigue me. And in turn, I am now intrigued by this family feud, as petty as it may be.”

The swarming scent of tobacco and perfume lingers in the air like a suffocating haze, fragmenting Eve’s perceptive skills for a few moments. She seems to have wandered into the more… mob element of the Iceberg Lounge. Something she was hoping for, but not entirely expected at the current time.

“You’re not exactly making this easy for me,” Eve tiredly admits, eyeing up the sharp, emerald suit the Prince of Puzzles is adorning. _No question marks,_ she notes. _Different. But nice._ “Isn’t it bad for both us to be seen associating with one another? Could raise questions, ones that I don’t particularly feel like answering.”

“Has the prospect of lying ever occurred to you?” Edward amusedly recommends, only for Eve to firmly respond with “It has. But I don’t like to.”

“Doesn’t like to lie as well,” he notes aloud, face twisted into an expression between entertainment and something akin to what a bitter, foul aftertaste left in his mouth would look like. “I don’t know if you’re stupidly idealistic or intelligently optimistic.”

Eve shrugs, fretful gaze flickering skirmishly around the room. “Bit of both.”

“Nervous are we?” Edward doesn’t fail to notice her discomfort, but is marginally surprised at the uncharacteristic apprehension. He hasn’t known her long, granted, but such a reaction seems rather out of place for her. She had him break into her home and hold her at gunpoint last night for Christ’s sake, and still she was relatively collected about it. But this… something here is worrying her, and him arriving as he did seems to have been enough for it to come to the surface. To overflow.

If Eve was capable of it, her look would almost be considered as scathing. “I’m in a room full of men who are primed to kill me at any given moment. Men who are artfully skilled in running and working in tactful crime businesses. I must admit, your presence is only adding to that discomfort.”

Normally Edward would grow tired of having to justify himself over and over, but he’s in a particularly spritely mood tonight, and finds no qualms in having to reassure again. A bit more convincingly this time. “I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. I _do_ mean it Miss Winter. I currently wish you no harm. You’re a puzzle, and puzzles happen to be a favourite past time of mine. Consider yourself safe... for the time being. And most wouldn’t try anything with you when you’re accompanied by someone like me, so _do_ stop fretting like a sheep amongst wolves.”

Eve regards him carefully, astonishingly finding no evident signs of deceit or ulterior motives. Even Edward feels a bit bewildered by his own words, as if he’s losing jurisdiction of his own thought pattern and mouth. He hardly knows this woman, and yet he’s treating her kinder than anyone of his Arkham compatriots. Perhaps it’s due to her infectious, appalling way of remaining kind even to someone like him. Maybe it’s because of how certain and honest she sounded when she confirmed that she would save his life, despite all his threats and the very real danger he poses. Edward Nygma _is_ still human, and when one meets an infectiously kind human being, one typically can’t help but react at least a _little_ kindly in return. Even if that kindness is in the form of genuinely not being rude for a change, or not threatening someone with a firearm. That does _not_ mean he wouldn’t throw her to the aforementioned metaphorical wolves if it came down to it.

A small warmth spreads inside Eve, mollifying her stress to a certain degree. “Eve. Call me Eve.”

 _Already on a friendly first name business?_ Edward ponders, scrutinising her. _That didn’t take too long._ “So long as you call me Edward my dear,” he replies, suddenly jolting up as if he remembered something. Which he did. “That reminds me, I have an… acquaintance I wish for you to meet.”

Alarm bells immediately blare out in Eve’s head, yet she’s deprived the chance to adequately voice her displeasure when one emerald arm, the one that isn’t holding the iconic question mark cane, securely links with hers and begins to guide her through the labyrinth of criminals, prostitutes, wealthy men and the occasional corrupted police officer. She made sure she hid herself well for those ones.

By the time the pair arrive at Edward’s destination, Eve is just about to lightly scold him for so abruptly dragging her off like that when her hazel gaze finds something that locks her firmly in place. Ice blue. Not the kind of nice blue the Dark Knight owns, but bone-chilling, heart-thumping, ice blue eyes. Sharp. Astute. _Hungry_.

“And to what, Edward, do I owe this pleasure?” Jonathan Crane drawls in a tone so cool that Eve wonders which is colder; his voice, or his eyes. He hardly glimpses at the dollied up detective, and within the brief, succinct moment he does, it’s with a certain amount of… disdain. Like she’s some sort of peasant in the immanent presence of a royal.

Eve narrows her eyes sharply at the Master of Fear, her heat enough to burn like sizzling coals into his icy skin. She is _surrounded_ by volatile mafia men who would blast a bullet into her brain quicker than she could utter a syllable in apology should they discover her involvement against their employers. Thirty six people _died_ last night because of the premature squabble easily offended, arrogant mob men instigated. She currently has the _Riddler_ clinging to her arm and threatening her entire investigation with the amount of information he possesses. Both Jim _and_ the Dark Knight – Jim having agreed with the dark clad vigilante this morning – have attempted to discontinue her involvement in the case. It seems the entire world is working against her, and what she doesn’t need right now is _another_ Arkham inmate testing, prodding and thinking himself superior over her, purely because of a reputation he earned out of making others fear him.

Jonathan Crane is far beyond unfazed when the detective’s petite nose scrunches up in irritation, fully aware of his contribution to said irritation. He can hardly spend one night in this deplorable night club/lounge without one of his Arkham compatriots intruding on him. Although, Edward Nygma is amongst his preferred calibre of rogues, so Crane accepts his victories where he can. He’s merely thankful it isn’t Harley or the Joker. Both of the clowns inflict such throbbing headaches on him on a regular basis. Half of his pantry is filled with Tylenol because of it.

“Is that any way to treat a friend Jonathan?” Edwards sardonically pouts, making eye contact with the charcoal haired, ex-psychiatrist nonchalantly poised in the booth, mindful of how isolated he is from the main population of the club.

Crane doesn’t rise to the bait, monotonously replying “I wouldn’t throw such a sentimental term around so carelessly Nygma. Now is there anything in particular you require? Or are you just wasting my time?”

Not once. Not _once_ has the arrogant Scarecrow shown Eve any recognition for her existence since she arrived, bar the momentary flicker of contempt. She is one hundred percent familiar with how terrifying and dangerous the rogue can be – probably more so than the one currently clinging to her arm – but even Eve can’t overlook the rudeness of such an indifferent man.

By habit now, Eve has immediately already begun taking mental notes of the frightful Jonathan Crane. _Cold. Apathetic. Indifferent. Nearly derisive. Has a superiority complex similar to Mr Nygma’s, yet slightly differs from his. Edward strives to be recognised for his intelligence and superiority, yet reports and behaviour suggest Mr Crane doesn’t. Superiority perhaps, but instead of intelligence he prefers to be recognised for his power over everyone else. This power is displayed through fear –_

“Your pet is trying to analyse me,” Crane mockingly informs Edward before the Riddler could respond to the Scarecrow’s previous question. Jonathan knows when he is being analysed; he’s was a psychiatrist for Heaven’s sake. It used to be his job. “Keep it on a tighter leash. Such fruitless endeavours only irk me.”

“I wouldn’t say they’re fruitless Dr Crane,” the private detective chimes in for the first time, making sure to keep her tone light and levelled.

“Then enlighten me child,” the Scarecrow taunts, spindly fingers crossing over one another like claws. “What have you learned?”

Her full blown smile remains suppressed, but Eve fails to restrain the small quirk of her lips that results from her opportunity given by the ex-psychiatrist. “Your language and observant eyes immediately scream ‘psychiatrist’, but that’s obvious and common knowledge for the public anyway. Nothing too significant.” She tries not to reveal any of her discoveries that may provoke him, for she doesn’t _particularly_ feel like being gassed in the face tonight. But once her mouth starts moving, she is at its mercy until it stops. “You were working on your formula this afternoon, not by yourself though. You had a test subject with you. An alcoholic she was. I say was because she’s dead now, may she rest in peace. You were mistreated by a pretty girl when you were younger, and most likely a religious family member as well. Either way you severely dislike religion, Christianity in particular. You feared crows as well. You’re harder to read than most Dr Crane, but not impossible. Not fruitless.”

Though his expression nearly remains entirely the same, the room seems to darken with Jonathan Crane’s mood with each discovery that spills from Evangeline Winter’s mouth. Everything feels colder as well, as if the temperature of the area is attempting to match the iciness of his eyes. Crane’s gaze slices over to Nygma, tone low yet still professional “You told her.”

“I said nothing,” Edward is unmoved by the intimidation technique. If anything, he’s amused at the Master of Fear’s reaction. _I knew I liked this woman for a reason._

“Then how does she know?” The Scarecrow is biting and callous, yet still doesn’t pay attention to the North Carolinian. He toys with the phone laid out on the table before him, a more dangerous edge to him now than before.

“ _She_ knows because _she_ can observe,” Eve intervenes cuttingly, mood not overly sour but not as soft as it usually is. “The smell of chemicals clings to you like a perfume. What else do you work on that involves chemicals? Hence the fear toxin formula. Clearly had a test subject with you because that’s not your phone, and she obviously attacked you as well. Criminals like you don’t risk having an easily traceable phone, and because you are fresh out of Arkham, you most likely haven’t had the chance to obtain a proper one yet. Which is why you’re using your alcoholic subject’s phone for the time being. How is she an alcoholic? Power connection; tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night she goes to plug it in to charge but her hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober woman’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them. The other sign that points to you testing on a woman this afternoon is the slight scratch under your jaw on the right hand side. Fresh, not even twelve hours old. Done by long nails, and while some men have long nails, you failed to remove the tiny flake of nail polish that imbedded itself in you as she attacked you. She’s obviously dead because I highly doubt you would keep her alive after she attacked you, and that’s only if she didn’t receive a heart attack from the fear toxin in the first place.”

“Simple enough, but how do you know of the other things?” Edward chimes in, enjoying seeing Jonathan Crane feeling immensely uncomfortable at the current time. _That’ll teach him not to abandon me for the Bat to find next time we collaborate together._

“He took an instant dislike to me the moment he laid eyes on me,” Eve explains a tad kinder to Edward, yet doesn’t even flinch away from Crane’s calculated stare. “I may not be model worthy, but I am not entirely unattractive either. He’s briefly looked at a couple other very attractive women in the area with the same disdain, as if he despises all pretty women. I’ve read nothing on the Scarecrow ever being involved with any women whilst in Gotham, which leaves the option of childhood wide open. She did something to you. Don’t know what, but it was _far_ from kind. You passionately dislike religion as well because you took one fleeting look at my cross necklace and despised me even more. That sort of hate only arises from childhood influences, so perhaps the pretty girl was religious, yet it’s more likely that it was a family member, for family leaves a more prominent affect on a child than anyone else. As for the crows? Shot in the dark, but when one names himself ‘Scarecrow’ that leaves room to suggest he was never particularly fond of crows growing up.” Eve’s head tilts angelically, her curtain of raven hair swiftly moving along with it. “Did I get anything wrong?”

Unbeknownst to the detective, Edward Nygma and Jonathan Crane have been exchanging informative glances for the past several minutes now, their expressions entailing an entire conversation and speaking louder than words possibly could in this instance. Most of these shared looks involve Edward pleading to not gas her yet, whilst Jonathan’s patience withers away like a flower devoured by fire.

Annoyed as he may be – and annoyed is most certainly an understatement – Crane stifles his indignation to evenly answer “I had _two_ test subjects with me. One male – an alcoholic – and one female – a hoarder.”

“Always _something_ ,” Eve scolds herself, momentarily staring at the floor as she does so.

“As entertaining as this is, I am _parched_. Let’s sit and order, shall we?” Edward chirpily interjects, suavely sliding into the booth next to Crane and pulling the North Carolinian in along with him. Jonathan’s irritation only flares at the Riddler’s forwardness, luckily not enough so for him to act on just yet. “Why hasn’t Oswald updated his beverages selection already?” The Prince of Puzzles keeps his flippancy and light-heartedness afloat, completely disregarding the uncomfortable glances he’s receiving from Eve and the vexed ones from his fellow rogue. “I mean honestly, it’s a miracle he’s maintained such a profitable business when he refuses to freshen up the available variety of drinks for his customers. This _is_ the 21st century, not the stone age –”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but _why_ are we here?” Eve softly intercedes, thinking twice and correcting her previous question to “Actually, rephrase; what are _you_ doing here? You still haven’t explained the entirety of your reasoning to me yet, and I am in the midst of a very fragile investigation—”

“ _Investigation_?” Crane interrupts the interrupter, sharp, pointed eyes nailing down on Nygma. “You brought a _detective_ into here? One who is _clearly_ not bought off either?”

“Okay I am sensing a rather palpable amount of tension between you two at the moment,” Edward keenly observes, sandwiched between the Master of Fear and the private investigator. “Perhaps a drink will settle the nerves? I did mention how parched I am –”

“ _Edward_ ,” Eve breaks him off again, adopting the tone of a disapproving mother. “Please explain your motives. _That_ will settle our nerves.”

The Riddler huffs, reminding Eve of a perturbed child. “If you two weren’t squabbling like a couple of brash plebeians, you would’ve noticed that two booths down and one to the left is where Andrew Murdocca and Seymour Rickman – two of Salvatore Maroni’s highest men – are currently sat, chattering with looser lips than acceptable. They’re bound to reveal _something_ of importance sooner or later, so keep a keen ear on them.”

In spite of not entirely appreciating the way he down talked and practically ordered her to do so, Eve steals a temporary glimpse to where Mr Nygma indicated, finding the two identified men which she has read plenty about to be exactly where he described. After that, she all but blocks out everything else around her, utilizing her selective hearing and efficiently eavesdropping on Andy and Rickman’s conversation in hopes of discovering a metaphorical gold mine of information.

Edward grins in a satisfied manner, like a cat that has gotten to the canary. Turning back to Jonathan Crane – who is on the very verge of just gassing everyone to be done with it – he quirks a pleased eyebrow. “So, what do you think?” He asks, dropping his voice a few octaves lower despite Eve being absolutely oblivious to the conversation, too absorbed in her eavesdropping.

Crane just drums his fingers on the table eerily, slowly. _Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap_. “I _think_ I’m going to need more fear toxin.”

“Oh come now, no need for such a sordid reaction. That sort of response is beneath you,” Edward condescendingly chides, nodding at the passing waiter for his usual drink.

“Why are you helping an entirely insignificant civilian? A _detective_ no less?”

“She’s a _private_ detective, actually,” Edward corrects his fear-loving acquaintance, that all-knowing glint glazing over his eyes.

Recognition instantly floods Crane’s expression, and for the very first time, his eyes slide over to Evangeline Winter on their own accord, without being addressed by her first. “You don’t say.”

For these two men, a private investigator/detective and a police detective are _completely_ different. Police detective means either a) they’re bought off by the mob, or b) they’re an ethical pain in the ass, like James Gordon. But a private detective? A private detective may not have the same legal jurisdiction that police detectives do, or the same access to classified files and cases, but they are _free_. They don’t have a boss, and they don’t have to follow any rules or guidelines – besides the law of course, but not many people care for that in Gotham. Consequently, they can bat for _any_ team. Normally, that wouldn’t matter to either Edward Nygma or Jonathan Crane, but _this_ private investigator’s particularly observant skills paired with the fact that she can technically side with any team? That may be… _useful_.

“You hear about an unidentified someone leaking all the juicy details of what transpired nineteen days ago in Crime Alley? And how that certain someone wasn’t the Bat?” The Riddler inquires of the Scarecrow, disregarding the existence of the waiter who presents him with his rusty coloured beverage and flees within a matter of seconds.

Crane’s lips thin. “You don’t mean to say…”

“Found her,” Edward smugly declares, glimpsing at Eve triumphantly as he sprawls comfortably in the booth. “Don’t tell Dent though.”

“Why does this frivolous feud interest you anyway?” Jonathan monotonously asks, accepting the refill the waiter has timidly brought him. “You clearly said it was beneath you.”

“I couldn’t care less about what enmity exists between Markovic, O’Reilly and Maroni. I’m not intrigued by any of that. I’m intrigued by _her_ ,” Edward indicates his head towards the raven haired woman, resting his golden cane in his lap leisurely.

Jonathan snorts unimpressed, losing slight interest in the subject. “She’s hardly your type Nygma. Not that any woman would be able to tolerate your presence long enough to endure a relationship with you anyway.”

The Prince of Puzzles agitatedly scowls, gaze tearing away from Eve and back to the Master of Fear. “Not for a reason as base as _that_. You’ve seen how sharp her observation skills are. That’s only the beginning. You won’t believe how far her discoveries have advanced, and she hasn’t even gotten her hands dirty. Not _once_. Unlike a mutual flying rodent of ours.”

“You can’t get tangled within the criminal underworld of this city and _not_ get your hands dirty,” Jonathan disbelievingly rebukes, yet even he can’t deny that everything about this woman screams… _nice_. Pure. It practically disgusts him.

“She has,” Nygma counteracts, idly sipping from his glass. “No one has the faintest idea of her existence, let alone her involvement. All she has done is research then logically piece together all her findings. She knows Alberto Falcone is at fault, and that he cashed in a favour with Jervis to obtain mind control devices to control Maroni. She knows of Emilia Bianchi as well. She knows much more than one should, and she’s not even a Gothamite.”

“She’s a southerner,” Crane distastefully agrees, reminding him of his own miseries back in Georgia. Not that she hasn’t caused him to reminisce already, by vaguely bringing up Sherry Squires and his Grandmother. _I **will** gas her at some point for that_. “She hides the accent well, and refrains from using Southern slang. The accent slips back from time to time however. It’s painfully evident.”

“Five months. She’s only been here for _five months_ , and she’s already so familiar with the illegal operations of this city and the criminals it holds,” Nygma informs Jonathan with no small amount of astonishment in his tone – and a bit of annoyance as well. “She’s dangerous, a threat should the Dark Knight Detective get his burly, barbaric fingers on her.”

“Don’t tell me you wish to take her on.” Scarecrow is beyond the point of exasperated, all hopes of experiencing a quiet night out long gone.

“Of course not, I don’t work too well with others when we collaborate on a regular basis. Their idiocy slows me down,” Nygma bitterly bites out, reminiscing over the Echo and Query days. “But even you can’t deny that someone with her morale, insignificance and abilities is useful.”

Jonathan is unsurprised by the Riddler’s ulterior motives, and allows it to appear evident in his sarcastic, dragged out drawl. “Ah of course, how could I forget that the Riddler only ever does anything should he receive something favourable in return? Same song, different tune.”

“You watch Crane,” Edward forebodingly warns, auburn hair like wooden fire in the warm light. “This woman is going to come up out of nowhere and take every single mob family by surprise. My only concern is Dent.”

“Two Face is about as observant as a blind, deaf man at the current time. Sionis has him too preoccupied,” Jonathan pointedly reproaches whilst a long, pale, elongated finger chillingly circles the rim of his glass.

Edward tsks, the smug Cheshire grin resurfacing. “As preoccupied as our esteemed, violent colleague may be, he is still nonetheless observant, and at least _partially_ intelligent. One of my inside men mentioned he has a man keeping tabs on her from time to time. Apparently this little ‘angel’ as Jim Gordon has been uncreatively nicknaming her, slipped up whence talking to Robert Mulder.”

“Of all of Dent’s simpleminded, meat-headed men to interrogate, she talks to and slips up on his sharpest of all? Your private investigator isn’t appearing as promising as she was, not nearly worth the effort.”

“She’s been unknowingly avoiding his detection though,” Edward seizes control over the conversation back, casting the Master of Fear an admonishing glance for interrupting. “Even whilst she’s ignorant, she’s guarded. Careful. She’s learning quickly, and when she does take down Maroni and Alberto, everyone will be clamouring to buy her off, kill her or meet her. Amongst all of this, _I_ shall be the one in her good graces. _I_ will be the Iago whispering advice into the ear of her Othello.”

Jonathan Crane still outwardly conveys no small amount of scepticism, final tone bringing the topic to an end. “If she’s as clever as you give her credit for Nygma, then it _may_ just be the other way around.”

***

Harvey Dent is, sufficient to say, always uncomfortable when he frequents the salacious Iceberg Lounge. Two Face loves it, he’s in his element here, but Harvey Dent had put many of the men in this room behind bars whilst he was the city’s acting esteemed district attorney. A lot of these same men have healthy, thriving business relationships with Two Face now, but still detest Harvey Dent.

It is his turn tonight, he won the coin toss, but Two Face still had to pay the Penguin a visit. Their severe dislike towards the stocky, disgustingly vulgar black markets dealer is one of the only matters on which they agree on, but Two Face maintains this business relationship out of the fact that he _is_ the best arms dealer in Gotham. Harvey can hardly stand the crude man.

Casting their cerulean eyes over to the bar where Rob is discreetly sat, they do the same to the rest of the room until they’ve found Michael Donovan and Jackson Keller as well. If _they’re_ settled and calm, then that’s just one less thing for them to worry about.

 _I don’t know why we’re still here. Cobblepot left to attend to other matters twenty minutes ago._ Harvey makes no attempt to disguise his disdain for the scandalous, indecent environment he’s surrounded by, with all its prostitutes and dirty criminals who hold no small amount of animosity against him. Most of them are profusely smoking as well. Harvey Dent hates smoking. Two Face loves it.

 ** _We haven’t had a good shag in a long time Harvey, and the Iceberg Lounge is one of the only places that has broads game enough to stomach our face and give a good fuck at the same time._** Two Face – or Harv as many who are close have come to call him – is in no mood to bicker with his up-tight other half at the moment. After dealing with Cobblepot, he needs something to cool him down and remove that ugly fucking mug from his memory.

The Harvey side of their face concernedly frowns, lips thinner than a strand of hair. _Aren’t you getting a bit tired of one night stands?_ For so long now, all Harvey has wanted to do is find a woman who not only tolerates his crass, obscene half, but is devoutly committed and affectionate towards them. _Commitment_. That’s what he wants. Someone he can either settle down with, or is ready to accept the deplorable, illicit lifestyle Harv is leading, as well as the grotesqueness of their prominent scarring. Some warm, womanly company that is at least semi-intelligent, not a criminal and keeps up with matters such as current events and politics. Is that so much of a crime?

Harvey can practically hear Harv’s internal groan rousing within. **_Not this stupid idea of yours again. I’m not settling down with some fucking skirt to live some shitty apple pie life like you had with Gilda. Gilda left, you need to forget about the bitch._**

 _Don’t talk about her like that_ , Harvey growls, their internal altercation becoming outwardly apparent on their shared expression. _You can’t blame her for leaving. We pushed her to leave. **You** pushed her to leave._

**_She was going to leave us anyway Harvey boy. Have you looked at us? She couldn’t stand our face the moment the bandages came off. She’s worthless. You don’t need her, or any other ‘committed’ fucking broad for that matter. _ **

“Boss.”

The familiar voice tears their train of thought off the rails and into a ditch. Lucky for Michael Donovan, Harvey is the one to respond, shoving Harv back for the time being. His agitation from the low blow dealt by Harv is still painfully overt however. “This better be important Donovan.”

Mike clearly appears apologetic, and is beginning to wish that Rob or Jack had pulled the short straw instead. “Something may have just popped up. Remember the private detective Rob was determined we look into? Evangeline Winter?”

It takes a few moments for the ex-DA to recall the woman, but he ultimately does so. “Somewhat. She didn’t seem that troublesome, but a possible asset. Why? She poking around again?”

Tongue in cheek, Michael Donovan subtly jerks his head in the general direction of a booth. “Bit more than that boss.”

Azure orbs once again dust over the establishment, acknowledging the cool colours of the themed lighting and furniture, and the equally cold people encompassing them. When they find a certain charcoal haired woman in a striking white dress sharing a booth with not one, but _two_ Gotham rogues, Harvey is breathlessly startled to say the least.

 ** _The fuck?_** Harv’s voice is muffled in the recesses of their mind, yet it’s still present. It always is. **_What is she doing with Nygma and Crane? Did they hire her?_**

 _I told you it was a good idea to keep tabs on her,_ Harvey gloats, despite his heart not entirely being in it. How could it be? A seemingly insignificant woman who was poking around their turf and business has abruptly materialised in a highly active criminal establishment, with _two_ Gotham rogues. Harvey may have pushed to have her monitored more than Harv did, but he still overlooked her as a threat entirely. Hence why he is currently berating himself for it, hoping that Harv doesn’t notice.

“Thanks Mike,” Harvey appreciatively says, an absent-mindedness tone weaving through his words. Harvey wastes no time in approaching the booth, most of his persistence urged on by the growing ire rooting from Harv. He can feel his worse half impatiently stirring within, like a provoked tiger pacing in an overly confining cage. **_When I get my hands on Nygma and Crane, I’m going to wring their fucking necks so damn hard I’ll stretch them like dough._**

_Give them a chance. They’re intelligent men. They do nothing without cause or reason._

**_They do nothing unless it’s for themselves. Dog-eat-dog world out there Harvey, or have you forgotten that?_ **

_How could I? We share the same head._ Even when they inwardly argue, each tone they adopt is remarkably different. Harvey is formal. Harvey is professional. Harvey is composed. Harv is harsh. Harv is coarse. Harv is hostile. Comparing their voices is like comparing honey to sandpaper. One is suavely smooth, the other rapaciously raspy. And this isn’t just apparent in their heads; it’s unduly distinguishable when they speak aloud as well.

Slick, polished black leather shoes slowly make their way over to the table of three, each step similar to a lion ostentatiously prowling towards his kill. The sharp shoes stop before the three individuals at the table, and that instantly garners attention from the two rogues. However, the private investigator seems to be entirely absorbed in her little world, body here but mind elsewhere. That only adds to Harv’s flourishing anger, so in some attempt to quell the other man inside him, Harvey ‘casually’ clears his throat.

“Nygma, Crane. _Miss Winter_.”

***

Incoherent from time to time. Small mumbles, suddenly shattered by raucous ruckus. Drunk men are predictably unpredictable in Eve’s opinion, especially drunk _criminal_ men.

They put on a good show – knowing exactly how loud they can grow before it’s deemed socially unacceptable. They mainly keep to themselves, only the occasional off-handed lewd comment to some poor woman who has the misfortune to cross their table. Some of them most likely do it on purpose though, for to bed men so high up in the Maroni crime family must be something worthwhile to brag about. _I never understood why it’s such a privilege and achievement to claim you’ve slept with such powerful men,_ Eve inwardly talks to herself, thinking back on her statement and amending it. _Well, I **do** understand it as an achievement I suppose, but not much of one. An achievement would be to continuously engage with them on some sort of relationship level, not a spontaneous one night stand. That way you learn more about them, and become aware of every little detail, tell-tale, secret, button, assurance and peeve that makes them up as a whole. If I was a woman looking into the criminal lifestyle, that is where I would begin. Be a marionette pulling on the heart strings of the most powerful men in Gotham._ She shakes her head, deeply ashamed of her thoughts. _I should never suggest that aloud. That could harm so many people._

The murmurs continue, swarming her head nearly as much as the detestable smoke. It buzzes more than the alcohol – not that Eve has _had_ much alcohol, only a couple sips of her Jack Daniels. Catches of the conversation have darted in an out of her ears, like trying to catch leaves in the wind. Recently however, the intoxicants seem to be working their magic, and making them bolder than usual. Which – much to Eve’s pleasure – means they’re talking _louder_.

“Three days. How the _fuck_ does he expect us to come up with somethin’ to execute in three fuckin’ days?” The one with palpable stubble heatedly asks, enjoying the long drag of his cigarette. Andrew Murdocca is his name, if memory serves Eve correctly. Otherwise known as ‘Andy’ or ‘Lefty’. Eve isn’t entirely sure she wants to know the reasoning behind the latter nickname. Nicknames in the mob generally don’t come about by pleasant, friendly means.

“Ey man, careful. _Ears_. Ears are everywhere, especially in places like these. Or do you want the _entire_ Iceberg Lounge to know that the boss is linin’ up for a big hit on Markovic? May as well yell it at the top of your lungs.” Eve strangles as gasp working its way up her throat from ‘Ricky’s’ clear announcement, once again praising the lord above for how careless drunk men can be.

Andy snorts unamused, also aware of how blunt his companion’s response was. “ _Now_ who’s the one who needs to be careful?”

Eve leans further into the booth, as if trying to phase through it. _If I can just get a little closer –_

“Nygma, Crane. _Miss Winter_.”

Even amidst an interruption as brusque and unanticipated as that, Evangeline Winter manages to maintain _some_ of her dignity by suppressing the majority of her spluttering. Unfortunately, she can’t help the little jolt that surges through her like a tidal wave, ‘subtly’ launching her back into Edward Nygma.

If she’s going by the deeply amused, rumbling chuckle reverberating off Nygma’s suited chest onto her partially exposed back, the little startle didn’t look nearly as elegant as she has been the entire night so far. Her hazel eyes fly up to meet the culprit of said startle, and when they do, she immediately regrets it.

Blue. Again, Eve wonders what it is with blue eyes in this city? But so far each pair of blue eyes she’s come into contact with have held different amounts of warmth, purpose and history. Batman’s blue eyes are light and professional, but also hold a somewhat soft element, even amongst all his intimidating threatening. Jonathan Crane’s blue eyes are icy and calculating, so chillingly transparent that she finds them daunting to peer into, like staring into the never-ending abyss of a crevice in the Arctic. Hollow, empty. Both of these men possess striking blue eyes, yet are at bipolar ends of the spectrum with what they each hold.

Harvey Dent, aka Two Face, is something that Eve has never had the pleasure to encounter before.

To any normally unobservant human being, when they spy upon the notorious Two Face – previously known as the White Knight of Gotham while he worked as DA – they would note that he possesses completely normal, azure eyes. His scarred half’s eye may appear more irritated than the other, but otherwise they’re entirely commonplace.

Nonetheless, Eve isn’t a ‘normally unobservant’ human being.

Just like Jonathan Crane and the Dark Knight, who are unconditional antitheses of each other, each eye on Harvey Dent’s face seems to be waging an intramural war with one another, coexisting yet incapable of melding into one agreeable state of mind. Perverse and antagonistic meets level-headed and understanding. And it’s not just his eyes that convey that, or the alarmingly conspicuous half-black half-white suit. His scarred face seems to own this permanent scowl and outwardly paint a suiting picture for his more chaotic half, whilst his clean shaven half is impeccably pristine with suavely brushed back, chestnut hair and a demeanour that _screams_ order. Order _and_ chaos. Not versus, but both mentalities coexisting in one body. One mind. One soul.

She couldn’t see it before, for photos can never truly convey as much as seeing something in person could, but Harvey Dent _isn’t_ Two Face. Harvey Dent and Two Face are two completely different people, contrary to what psychiatrists in Arkham what may think. And yet, who is now standing before her? Two Face, or Harvey Dent? If Eve is to go off the single sentence he had uttered with such professionalism and manners, as well as the word choice, she would guess Harvey Dent.

She _hopes_ for Harvey Dent.

“Now now Harvey, as amusing as that spectacle was, it’s rather rude to be frightening guests, yes?” Edward condescendingly chastises, tsking Harvey like a parent reprimanding a child.

If Harvey is put off by such down talk, he doesn’t show it. “It’s also rather rude to be poking around business that isn’t your own,” his heart-stopping stare fixes on her, and Eve suddenly wishes she could shrink into the booth or – lord help her – even _Edward_ more than she currently is. “Wouldn’t you think Miss Winter?”

She didn’t catch onto it the first time, having been so preoccupied with his startling entrance, but hearing her name fall from Harvey “Two Face” Dent’s lips nearly renders her immobile, wondering how he could a) possibly know her name and b) know of her poking around his turf.

 _Edward didn’t tell him; at least, I’m sure he didn’t._ She struggles to collect her thoughts, like trying to catch fistfuls of water. _The only possible leaks would be the cameras or when I visited the cafe. Rob **was** rather suspicious of me. Perhaps he followed up on his suspicions?_ She suddenly remembers the cashier and barista, and how grateful they sounded for Two Face buying them off instead of Maroni putting up his protection racket. _They’re scared of Two Face, but they’re loyal. They would’ve told Rob, Mike and Jack of me prodding at them for money._ Eve nearly slaps her forehead for her own blatant stupidity. _Of course! How could I be so careless and blind?_ The North Carolinian also recalls a man having spied upon her apartment building a few times, yet thought nothing of it at the time. _If Harvey Dent is aware of my involvement in this, then it really isn’t so far-fetched to presume that he has someone keeping an eye on me. What’s the bet that the man I’ve spotted on occasion is one of his?_

“I meant no offence Mr Dent,” Eve calmly assures with a polite smile gracing her lips – well, she _hopes_ she sounds calm anyway. “In fact, I have nothing against you whatsoever. My interest is in stopping Don Maroni and this uncalled for mob war. You have a mighty loyal cashier and barista though, and they do make a damn good coffee. Oh, and say hi to Rob, Mike and Jack for me if you find the time. I understand they were just doing their job, so no hard feelings.”

Harvey blinks at the private detective a couple times, her words sinking in. _Did she just insinuate that my cashier and barista told Rob and the boys of her questioning, and that they **then** did a follow up on her background?_ Harvey’s head tilts so slightly in curiosity, it’s practically unnoticeable. _Not bad for a private investigator._

 ** _She’s too polite. Too nice. Any other Gothamite would be furious of the boys tipping them off like that. Not to mention we’re not nice guys, yet she’s fucking treating us like we’re long lost pals about to discuss this city’s shitty weather._** Harv doesn’t hold back in inwardly voicing his distaste, the scowl on his side of the face deepening. **_Put a bullet in the bitch and tell Nygma not to set a private investigator on us again._**

_She’s not here for us. She’s here for Maroni, who – may I remind you – we have no interest in protecting or helping. And I don’t think she works for Nygma either; we’re on good terms with him at the moment, or they’re tolerable in the least. He has no reason to hire an investigator._

**_Then what? She’s working for Crane? Gordon? The Bat? May I remind you that none of those names are particularly in our good graces either. And she’s annoying me, so I couldn’t care less if the skirt is helping or not; she’s a liability and a nuisance._ **

_Just play nice for a while. I’m handling it._ “Despite it not being personal Miss Winter, you’ll have to understand my concern for this matter, and more importantly, who hired you. Which reminds me...” One, long, daunting step is taken, casting a suffocating shadow over Eve, stifling her breathing at the criminal glint that has officially entered his eyes. “Who _did_ hire you?”

Eve seems incapable of breathing, as if she has entirely forgotten the instinctual act. She knows this is him being nice, which is a given considering the company she is currently with, but she is still unable to deny the fright the man bestows upon her.

When watching a movie or TV show, or reading a book, or even hearing of such events in the news and papers, one tends to find it intimidating, but you’re still rather detached from it as a whole. You never quite know the feeling of being within such a threatening, terrifying presence until you _are_ in the presence of a threatening, terrifying person. Try as you may to understand the feeling, but it is near impossible to comprehend it until you have done so.

Eve is familiar with intimidation. She’s been in Gotham for five months, and within the nineteen days she’s been on this case, she has had the pleasure to meet not only the Dark Knight Detective, but as of now, the Riddler, Scarecrow and Two Face as well. To be in the presence of one of these men is petrifying within itself, but now? In the vicinity of _all three_ of the criminals?

The private investigator is aware that she mustn’t show weakness in the face of a predator however, and so she stores away her anxiety and possible nervous breakdown for her next moment alone at home, as well as answers the crime lord’s question with the propriety of sophisticated woman and an innocent look to match. “I apologize Mr Dent, but someone with your vast arrange of knowledge in law must be aware of client confidentiality, having been this city’s shining District Attorney before your career change. I’m sure you are informed about me personally as well; having read my file and assigned that footman of yours to spy upon my apartment, so finding out shouldn’t take you too long. Now once again, I mean no true offence Mr Dent, but during your attempts on monitoring me you have come off, quite frankly, like a man with have the subtly of a brick and the depth of a shot glass. But I’m sure a man of your stature is aware of that.”

The silence that befalls the table is so thick it would be near impossible to cut it, even with a butcher knife.

 _Did I.... just say that to Two Face?_ Evangeline so desperately feels like downing the rest of her glass in one go. _Perhaps there is a formal consent I can sign that asks him not to murder me. This is my best dress after all, and I’m sure Edward doesn’t want blood on his suit either._

Meanwhile, in Harvey’s own head, he’s momentarily rendered speechless. Unfortunately, for Two Face, that is not that case. **_She just fucking owned you._** He snorts, nearing towards a state of impressed, but not quite there either. **_Pussy Harvey boy got told by a woman so prissy and nice she should have a fucking halo and angel wings to match. Perhaps the broad ain’t as saintly and refined as I thought. Would still be easier to put a bullet in her though._**

Harvey scowls, impressed by her sharp wit yet unimpressed by whom it was directed at. _Shut up, I’m handling this._

Jonathan Crane is still tired of the company that has so suddenly amounted at his table. His evening was so pleasant before Nygma had to come parading in with his new toy. Nonetheless, seeing the astonished expression of a man as proper and adept as Harvey Dent after being put in his place by the wit, manners and innocence of such a painfully _nice_ woman is.... amusing, to say the least. It doesn’t stop him from voicing his displeasure though, even over Edward’s coherent laughter that has shattered the silence at the table. “I think I’ll take my leave whilst Dent still possesses a shred of dignity. Thank you, Edward, for pre-empting my night. Pray we don’t meet again Miss Winter, for your question mark guardian won’t always be around to protect you.” The cold, languid, sarcastic, sharp drawl in which Jonathan Crane adopts as he slickly slides out of the booth and places money down on the table snaps Eve from her stupor, and her response is almost involuntary.

“I don’t require Edward’s protection Dr Crane, nor a knight in shining armour.” Her insinuation towards the Batman does not go unnoticed. “If I was incapable of protecting myself, I would not have got into my profession, let alone move to this city. I’m no damsel.”

“You do not need to be a damsel to know distress,” the former psychiatrist warns, icily peering at her over the rim of his glasses. “Good evening, everyone.” Despite his exit appearing lethargic, the Master of Fear is gone from the table in a manner of seconds, abandoning the three to the currently tense air around it.

Still viewing the entire fiasco as amusing, Edward Nygma devilishly grins and says “Well, this has been quite a night. Thank you for the entertainment you have provided my dear.” His last sentence is directed at the detective, an almost childlike glee apparent on his features. “I haven’t had this much fun for quite some time now, and unless my ears deceived me, I do believe you obtained what you were seeking as well. Enjoy the rest of your night detective; I still have business to attend to.”

Unlike Crane’s slow, deliberate movements, the Prince of Puzzles is swift and fast in his movements, slipping out from the booth and slamming some money down as well, and adeptly twirling the golden question mark cane that has suddenly materialised as soon as he does so. “Do try not to frighten the lady too much Harvey, it’s a rarity to find an individual with a tolerable amount of intelligence in this city.”

As quickly and unexpectedly as it occurred, is Evangeline Winter left alone with none other than the infamous Two Face in a dark corner booth, surrounded by immoral, corrupt Gothamites in a deplorable business establishment.

Harvey notices this too, and regrettably, so does Two Face. **_My turn. Let me out, I’m going to have a nice conversation with the nice lady. _**

_Like anything that leaves your mouth is even vaguely ‘nice’._

**_What can I fucking do Harvey? I’m in the Iceberg Lounge. I can’t exactly blow the bitch’s fucking head off in here, Cobblepot will have me tossed out quicker than Quinn when she’s pissed off the Joker._ **

_You could, I don’t know, **scare** the poor woman into bumbling heap of stutters and tears. And despite how you may feel about it, I don’t particularly enjoy seeing women cry._

**_Pussy_**.

_Just flip the damn coin._

Eve observes them in awe, noting the way each half of his face contorts in accordance to who is evidently talking to who within their head. Their head even marginally faces side to side, displaying the half that is arguing more prominently. When they abruptly delve into the depths of their pocket and draw out the iconic coin, Eve strangles down another gasp. _What do they feel the need to flip for?_ She doesn’t precisely know if she wants the answer to that question.

The coin dances in the air for far too long yet not long enough, a slight ring from the flip bouncing in her eardrums. It lands with a deafening smack on the non-scarred hand, the scarred hand manoeuvring to prevent it from falling off. When the covering hand removes itself agonisingly slowly, the private investigator actually _does_ down the rest of her drink in one shot.

Scarred-half up.

Before her very eyes, does Harvey Dent disappear. His posture slackens from refinement to nonchalance. His face from patience to a permanent scowl. And the most frightening of all, _both_ of his eyes glaze over into a treacherous glint, like a malicious shadow has fallen over them.

He moves like a true predator into the opposite side of the booth, taking his sweet time to sit down and rest his arms on the table. He finishes Edward’s drink for him, coarsely rubbing his chin with the back of his hand when some of the drink doesn’t reach his mouth, and the entire time, his eyes don’t move away from the detective in front of him once. They hardly even _blink_.

“So, Winter,” his tone is gruffer, harsher, raspier than Harvey’s. Not as refined. “You’re going to tell me _every fucking thing_ you know about this case, or I will _personally_ drag you out the back and put a bullet between your pretty little eyes before pretty boy Harvey can say otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	9. Plans Need People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a filler?? But setting up the biggie that is next chapter, pinkie promise *sticks out pinkie finger*

_“You can’t sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares.”_ ~ Joker

Her palms are clammy. Throat as dry as sandpaper. Heart like a thunderstorm is brewing in her chest. Eve hopes she doesn’t appear as nervous as she is, but judging by the self-satisfied and growing smirk on the convicted felon in front of her, she’s not exactly doing a wonderful job at it.

Andrew Murdocca doesn’t matter. Seymour Rickman doesn’t matter. Salvatore Maroni doesn’t matter. Alberto Falcone, Carmine Falcone, Dmitri Markovic, Colin O’Reilly, Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane, the Dark Knight, Jim Gordon, Jervis Tetch, Sean O’Reilly, Alexandra Markovic. _None_ of them matter in that moment. Eve hates herself for it, for being so selfish and disregarding the danger and harm that so many of those individuals pose, but she is only human.

And she is _scared_.

Maybe not as scared as she would be in the presence of someone like Killer Croc, but one moment she is conversing with a somewhat reasonable man, and has two others there to lessen the immense tension developing around them. Next second, they’re both gone, and so is the reasonable man. The nicer half.

So Evangeline Winter sits there. Alone. With none other than Two Face. And, he has made his intentions _quite_ clear.

Suddenly wishing she hadn’t swallowed the rest of her liquor in one gulp, Eve’s petite, dainty fingers absent-mindedly fiddle with her glass, but she refuses to veer her eyes from the mobster. That would represent submission, and nervous as she may be, she will _not_ submit to a man who obtains what he desires through brutal, unrefined and coarse bullying. What she strives to achieve, is a proper, collected plan. In order for her to that, she needs to stall. “You think my eyes are pretty?”

Perhaps that wasn’t the best way in which to avoid the topic, but she is working on the spot through a whole lot of anxiety and pressure. Her composure will build the more she grows used to the situation. It won’t be long before she can try to gain control again.

Two Face is unimpressed. “Smart ass behaviour like that doesn’t get you far in this city. You’ll be dead by the end of the week if you continue.”

“You’re not the only one who knows friends in high places,” Eve warns, voice resolute. “I may be tangling myself in matters with forces beyond my depth, but I’m not defenceless. Don’t think I am.”

“The fucking Bat doesn’t count,” Harv hisses, able-bodied fingers curling around his own empty glass in an iron grip.

The corner of Eve’s lip twitches. “Who said I was talking about the Bat?”

Harv’s scowl is low, rumbling at the very bottom of his throat. He leans forward menacingly, spooking Eve in the slightest when he does so. “Listen here Nancy Drew, I don’t like dancing around the fucking problem like Nygma, Crane and Harvey do. If I don’t get told what I want to hear straight, then I get pretty fucking pissy. And you _don’t_ want to see me angry, you won’t like it.”

“Listen here Bruce Banner,” Eve retorts in a heartbeat, leaning forward to meet him in the middle of the table and speaking in a manner far blunter than she has in a long while. “I get that you’re a big, scary mob boss with a terrifying reputation to match. I’m scared of you, I am. But my interests aren’t with you. I want Maroni dealt with, as well as the man controlling him. You don’t even _like_ Maroni, and you have your own discrepancies with Mr Sionis to handle. Nonetheless, if Maroni is bothering Don O’Reilly and Don Markovic, they’re going to be bothering _you_ for help. The way I see it, by taking care of Don Maroni and his little puppeteer, I’m doing you a _favour_. Unless you would rather deal with Markovic, O’Reilly, Maroni, Falcone _and_ Sionis. Your choice, of course.” By the end of it, the private detective has once again reclined into her seat, liberating the tension in her shoulders and wearing a kind, angelic smile upon her face.

Harv’s jaw clenches in a murderous vice grip, and only increases tenfold when he hears Harvey’s full blow laughter within their head. _What were the words you so eloquently used on me beforehand?_ He mocks, feigning realisation after a couple seconds. _Ah, that’s right. ‘She just fucking owned you’._

**_Shut. Up._ **

_You can’t deny her point,_ Harvey attempts to console, snickers dying down. _We wouldn’t even need to get our hands dirty. She’s offering to do the job for us, without even getting paid._

**_Whoever hired her is paying her,_** Harv rebukes, the steam rising off his angered face only lessening marginally. **_But…despite the fact I hate to fucking agree with you… it would be useful to not have to deal with everything…_**

_I’m sorry, what was that? Was that a confession?_

**_I have a strong need to shoot a certain someone in the face right now._ **

_The feeling is mutual._

“Okay, you cheeky wench,” Harv grinds out, copying her movements but not loosening the tension within him like she did. “I’m going to give you _three fucking days_ to deal with this. I won’t pester you, I won’t spy on you and I won’t take you out the back and put a bullet between your pretty fucking eyes. Three days. If Maroni and whoever the hell is pulling on his strings isn’t dealt with…” He rises agonisingly slowly from the booth, looming over her like a reaper on Judgement Day. “… then I’ll be _personally_ dealing with _you_.”

The North Carolinian swallows, _hard_. Not one to back down from a challenge – especially one that may actually result in her walking away from this alive – she rises to the bait, standing and confidently outstretching her hand between them. “That sounds more than fair.”

Harv’s eyes flicker sceptically between her own and the offered hand, until finally, he envelops her delicate palm in an overbearing, controlling grip to shake. Tugging her forward roughly, she gasps at how suddenly the proximity between them decreases, his breath as hot as the depths of hell fanning against her face. His scarring is immeasurably more detailed now as well, but it’s his _eyes_ that chill her to the bone.

He immediately notices her discomfort, a depraved, throaty chuckle dancing over her face. “What’s the matter dollface? Scared of the scars?”

“I couldn’t care less about the scars,” she admits so softly he nearly didn’t hear her. “If I’m scared of you, it’s because you can kill me at any given moment. You’re a powerful man, and half of the people in this place wouldn’t bat an eye if you did kill me. Just because you wear your scars on the outside, doesn’t mean the rest of us are going to be scared of them.”

He distrustfully eyes her, looking for any signs of a lie yet finding none. “You may have a bigger stomach than I thought Winter. Don’t disappoint me.”

She bestows him with one of her bright, beaming smiles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

For the past day and a half, all Evangeline Winter has done is plan.

Usually, she isn’t one to execute and go into the field in a case of action. She’s the mind behind an operation, allowing Jim to deal with the legwork due to legal jurisdictions and things of the like. Even before she came to Gotham, she allowed the sheriff or another officer in the area she would be staying in to handle the arrests and the reading of the rights. On an occasion out of her control, she would even fall back on her brother, but that was an absolute _last_ resort.

_That reminds me,_ the North Carolinian reminisces, lips slimming into a line thinner than a strand of hair. _Nate is supposed to be here any day now._

Eve has nothing against her elder brother. She loves him, just as any loyal sibling should. Just because she doesn’t approve of his choice in profession, doesn’t mean she’s going to kick him to the curb like their parents did.

Her only concern is where he may fit into all of this once he arrives. He won’t patiently sit on the sidelines and restrain himself from interfering; he’s too stubborn for that. Too much pride. The fact that Eve – _his little sister_ – is stuck in an affair that concerns organised crime syndicates, notoriously treacherous super criminals and an infamous, unbeatable vigilante is enough to warrant an intervention from _any_ older brother. Yet she is nonetheless certain that Nathaniel Winter would only complicate matters further, and utilise more… _illegal_ measures than the private investigator feels comfortable with.

_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK._

She glances up from the plans and indiscernible notes scrawled on scrap pieces of paper leisurely, only having woken up half an hour prior. The caramel coloured tea breathes out palpable streams of steam, manicured nails dreamily circling the rim of the hot mug. _That better be who I think it is._

Abandoning her tea and plans to the kitchen island counter, Eve snuggly wraps her robes further around her, encompassing herself in white silk as her feet _pitter_ and _patter_ against the timber flooring not consumed by her fluffy rug. Fingers curls around the cool knob, pulling the door open to reveal the exact person whom she was hoping for.

Rebecca Daniels huffs a stray strand of her golden hair that is haphazardly obscuring her vision, travel bags packed to the rims in each hand and thick rimmed glasses sitting atop the bridge of her nose. “You did _not_ tell me this city was so fucking cold.”

Eve chuckles amiably, opening her door further and relieving Bec of a couple of her bags. “It gets pretty cold in Greenville; I didn’t think you would need a heads up. It is winter after all.”

“Yeah, well, Gotham was supposed to be better. Don’t know why I expected more from this shit-hole of a city,” the psychiatrist grumbles, trudging in with her copious layers of warm clothing.

Chuckling further, Eve shuts and locks the door the moment her friend has ventured inside, resting the bags on the made sofa-bed and beaming brightly at her clearly disgruntled high school companion. “I know you don’t like travelling Bec, so thanks for coming.”

“Don’t worry about it Angie, you know I wouldn’t actually leave you to the wolves if it came down to it. No way was I going to let you have all the fun anyway, especially after you told me that asshat Two Face threatened you the other night. And do not even get me started on that Puzzle man guy and the walking hay bale—”

“You surely don’t mean the Riddler and Scarecrow,” the detective giggles, lazily returning to her tea and brewing Bec her much needed cup of coffee.

Bec snorts, shedding her thousand and one layers of clothing until she’s in her tank top and jeans, clumsily collapsing onto the sofa bed back first. “I lose track of all the tacky titles they give themselves. I even heard there was this nitwit that called himself ‘Condiment man’ or something.”

“Gotham is a colourful city, never say I said otherwise,” Eve mumbles sweetly, having grown somewhat fond of the criminal cesspool in her short time there. There has never been a single dull moment in her duration here, and each case she has actively engaged in has been as audacious and adrenalizing as the last. Even though this Maroni fiasco has been her first case involving highly dangerous, renowned criminals, the petty affairs and robberies she has delved into have still been thrilling nonetheless.

Evangeline Winter, is growing to _love_ this city.

Her friend sniffs, slumping and rolling around in the sheets until she eventually discovers her ideal spot. “Mm, I do have to admit, besides the city being a dump in some places, _and_ the ridiculous, cheesy, wack-job criminals that run the town, there kinda is an alluring quality about it all. Exciting, is probably the best word I can find for it.”

Eve’s smile broadens, threatening to take over her face. “Adventurous, thrilling, energising, wonderful, dangerous—”

“Didn’t ask for a damn thesaurus,” Bec sarcastically mutters, yet grins at her friend’s enthusiasm. “You’ve fallen in love with this place. I can tell. Guess that means you’re never coming back to Greenville, yeah?”

“Maybe to visit the family. But, my dear little Australian, I think I have found the city I will finally settle in,” the private investigator firmly announces, observing the espresso machine doing it’s magic.

An unladylike snort can be heard from the couch. “ _Not_ Australian. Not officially.”

“You frequent the country on numerous occasions, was born there before you vacated to Greenville less than a year later, and you somehow manage to maintain that charming Australian slang and undeniable accent whenever you talk. Especially when you’re temperamental. You’re more of an Aussie at heart than an American.”

Tongue in cheek, Rebecca’s tanned, bare shoulders shrug in admission. “Yeah, guess so. You can’t say much though, you hardly even sound Southern anymore—”

_Knock knock knock._

Both women fall deadly silent, a pregnant pause stifling all the air in the room until it’s nearly unbreathable. The fond friends exchange a wary glance, Eve’s rosy lips pursing in a mystifying mix of apprehension and resignation. With the unfavourable sort of luck that has bestowed itself upon the detective at late, it wouldn’t be too far off to assume that the Penguin or Catwoman is currently at her door. Not a member of the Bat family, for they seem to possess this self-fabricated notion that doors are unessential and breaking and entering is apparently not a convictable crime, but perhaps another super criminal to add to Eve’s flourishing list of rogues to send Christmas cards to.

Bec slowly sits up, acting like if she did so too quickly, she would provoke the door and induce a violent reaction out of it. “You’re not expecting anyone... right?”

“Two Face said he would allow me three days with no forthcoming interruptions,” Eve answers lowly, tiptoeing over and hesitating before the imposing door. What if Jim had found out of her deal? There were a few officers at the Lounge that night, yet none of them appeared conscious enough to coherently hear or recognise the detective in the first place.

_Who else could it be –?_

She paused. Again. The realisation of who it most likely is flushes over her like a broken dam of realisation, and almost exasperatedly, she unlocks and yanks the door open to find who she had speculated. “Edward. You seem to possess this unhealthy fascination of my involvement in this case.”

The emerald clad criminal assuredly invades Evangeline’s personal space and invites himself in, removing his immaculate bowler hat and expertly tossing it onto the coat rack. “A little birdy told me of the deal you struck with Harv. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spy upon what you have devised to meet this accord’s standar—who are you?” The abrupt recognition of Rebecca Daniels’ additional presence in the room has the Riddler stopping for thought, and even more so when he notes the made sofa bed and travel bags sticking out like a sore thumb.

Rebecca narrows her gaze into razor sharp slits, sizing up the criminal standing not three meters from her before returning her attention to her friend. “Is this one of the wack jobs from Arkham you’ve befriended?”

“I am _not_ a ‘wack job’ you simple-minded ignoramus,” Nygma bristles, his overwhelming pride taking great offence to the insult. “You should learn to appreciate the presence of a far more intellectual superior—”

“I’m guessing that you’re the Riddle guy, just by going off on that flashy purple question mark you got there on your back,” Rebecca intervenes blandly, unmoved by the fact she is facing down one of Gotham City’s most deadly villains.

If human beings could breathe fire like a dragon, Eve is almost certain her high school confidant would be crispier than a slice of bacon on a barbeque, just by the heated expression casting over Edward’s features. “The _Riddler_. I. Am. _The Riddler_. I am only capable of _explaining_ such a fact to dim witted cretin like you, so I unfortunately can’t comprehend it for your dense mind. That is all up to you.”

“Mr High and fucking Mighty thinks I’m stupid Angie,” Bec bites out, rising up to the occasion and meeting the criminal at eye level, despite her previous words being directed at Eve. “I bet I could answer any one of your fucking riddles.”

“Such crude language only exhibits that your vocabulary is limited to profanities and obscene expressions. But, I suppose I should entertain such trifle challenges, as fruitless and humorous it shall be to me.” The Prince of Puzzles puffs his chest like a proud peacock, a cocky grin to match as he announces “Riddle me this! My first is often at the front door, my second is found in the cereal family. My third is what most people want; my whole is one of the united states. What am I –?”

“Matrimony.”

Edward blinks, mouth parting enough to allow a fly entry.

Rebecca smirks, crossing her arms defiantly and explaining “Break matrimony into three parts. Mat, something that can greet you at the front door; ri, sounds like rye, which is found in the cereal family; and mony, which, when saying the full word, sounds like ‘money’, something that everyone desires. Put it all together, and you have matrimony; a united state between two people.”

The Riddler’s teeth grit together so hard Eve is sure they’re going to crack. “Beginner’s luck. Thirty white horses stand on a red hill, first they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still. What am–”

“I’ve seen the Hobbit. Teeth. Next.”

“Without fingers, I point. Without arms, I strike. Without feet, I run. Wha—”

“A clock. Next.”

“I have memories, but none of my own, whatever's on my inside is what is shown. If I'm ever different it's because you changed me, I feel like a decoration, here for you to arrange me—”

“Heard it before. Picture frame. Next.”

“You’re cheating! Just because you’re a woman, and you’re wearing glasses, don’t assume I won’t hit you for your cheating. I know a cheater when I see one and you are undoubtedly—”

“That’s enough! Please! The both of you!” Eve desperately comes between the two, resting a soft hand on Edward’s chest and Bec’s shoulder, eyes pleading for the both of them like a kicked puppy. “Bec, stop provoking him. And Edward? Please don’t throw her into a death trap or shoot her. I need her. She’s my best friend, and she’s helping me on this case. I know you want to see how I am progressing, so please, have some patience and I’ll show you what I have formulated.” _Stroke the ego Eve, stroke the ego._ “A man as intelligent as you may not need others to aid him in plans, but I’m not accustomed to such things. I usually just solve the case and let the officers take care of the legalities. So please, no more fighting.”

She can feel the heat of the anger rolling off Bec from her feeding the certifiably insane man’s ego, but the psychiatrist keeps her mouth shut. Rebecca can identify a superiority complex and narcissistic personality disorder when she sees one, so she remains fumingly silent, only for the sake of her companion.

For a moment, Eve almost thinks that Edward Nygma is going to murder the both of them, but uncharacteristically, he restrains his unstable temper and uneasily takes one, long step back. “Her involvement better prove to be rather significant.”

“More significant than you think,” the ebony haired woman assures, diverting her focus back on Bec and inquiring “Did you manage to make the call?”

Still glaring daggers at the emerald fugitive, Rebecca Daniels finally tears her cutting stare away from Nygma and softens it for her friend. “It is on a _really_ short notice, but given the approximate time you have, I got my brother to take care of the legalities of it all. Nothing about this plan will be illegal.”

“And he’ll be here tomorrow?”

“Tonight,” Bec corrects, unfolding her arms soothingly and losing the tension in her muscles. “He’s impressed by what you’ve organised, and also managed to scrounge some last minute evidence that may help with some of the people you plan to put away.”

“Care to share with the rest of the class, little angel?” Edward cuts in, moving closer to the two women again in order to grasp their attention.

Eve faces him, unaware of whether he’ll approve of the plan or not. Not that it would change what she’s going to do. If executed correctly, this may be the largest crime scandal the city has seen since the arrival of the Batman. “My friend here, the one you have seemed to have got off on the wrong foot with, is Rebecca Daniels. She has an elder brother quite high up in the FBI, who managed to obtain government permission to go forward with the plans I have to take down the Maroni crime family.”

“Your plan is to take down the _entire_ family?” Edward scoffs, viewing the proposition as preposterous. “Impossible. To take down a crime family in this city is unimaginable, let alone the second most influential mafia family. Any attempts to do so would be futile and result in your imminent demise. I thought you to be smarter than that.”

“You stick your nose up and shout ‘impossible’ now, but you have yet to see what I have organised,” the private detective challenges, a confident glow illuminating her face like warm candles in a dark abyss. “By the end of this, Salvatore Maroni will be spending the rest of his life in a prison cell far, far away from Gotham city.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	10. Fallen From Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve kicks ass, what more could you want?

_“Sometimes it’s the people no one imagines anything of, who do the things that no one can imagine.”_ ~ Alan Turing

Evangeline Winter, in the eyes of Jim Gordon, falls just short of being a guardian angel. The only attributes she is seems to be lacking are the feathered wings, glowing halo and celestial abilities.

It’s impossible. Her vision, her plan. No one in this history of Gotham City has ever completed such a feat, not even the Bat. Yet, whether he deems it surmountable or not, and whether he approves of it or not – which he does, but that is beside the point at the current time – it has already begun. Her movement, this… _revolution_ of hers where a single civilian such as herself has been able to rise and organise such an endeavour, will throw Gotham into an awestruck turmoil, rupturing the criminal order strategically systematized by the biggest criminals of the city. It’s not purely limited to the criminal underworld however; every class from the high society to the street rats will feel the tremors of her waking earthquake.

The Dark Knight was right. She’s not special, but she’s _dangerous_.

A weary hand sneaks under the Commissioner’s glasses to rub at his haggard, tired eyes, his spine slouching into his worn office chair like he’s trying to sink into it. “You know this is suicide, right?”

Eve’s face is brimming with a beaming smile, Jim’s lack of faith failing to dampen her spirits. “You trusted me with this case Jim. I know you asked for me not to act on it, but you and I are both aware of how many officers in your precinct are bought out by the crime families and the Riddler. It’s about time we brought in the cavalry.”

The wise, ageing eyes of Jim Gordon pay the blonde woman and FBI agent on either side of the private investigator a fleeting recognition. Usually, the FBI tends to make it their goal to be as detached from Gotham City as humanely possible. How Eve managed to be granted legal jurisdiction for her scheme _and_ acquire such a formidable force of government confederates – not to mention the SWAT squad – is beyond the imagination of the experienced Commissioner, but with such an influence in the legal system firmly tucked under her belt, she’s now capable of ordering around the whole precinct – him included – for the entirety of today. The 22nd day since the shooting. Monday, the 1st day of February, twenty sixteen.

He sighs exhaustedly, sounding a thousand times older than what he actually is. Finding the hazel gaze of the North Carolinian, Gordon comments with a tongue of dry humour “If by some miracle’s work you manage to pull this off, I’ll be the first to buy you a drink when it’s over.”

“Better get some cash out of the ATM then,” Eve playfully warns, swiftly retrieving her white, mid-thigh length coat from where is rested upon the rack. “Because we head out in thirty.”

***

She knew, even with the aid of Brandon Daniels’ entourage of agents, that this was going to be no small feat.

With the front door swiftly swinging shut behind her, the private investigator carelessly tosses her coat over the disturbed sofa bed, knowing she’ll need it later. Her long legs eat up the timber floorboards as she makes her way into the office, throwing the door open and striding over to Bec who is sat before the set up.

Her friend throws Eve a speculative look over her shoulder, perfectly shaped eyebrow arching. “Where did you run off to?”

“Had to take care of something first. It’ll come in handy later,” the raven haired woman dismisses, eyeing the screens of each computer intensely.

She stands rigidly stands before her line up of monitors within the security of her office, each screen displaying a different location from the perspective of a GoPro steadfastly attached to the police officer, SWAT member or FBI agent’s headgear. Not many officers were let in on the plan, but from the select few that were, they took their orders without so much as a groan of complaint, in spite of many scoffing snidely at the futility of it.

Each monitor has a microphone and speaker pragmatically placed in front it, enabling the North Carolinian the chance to offer advice and commands to each squad’s location. The only other life forms in the room with her are Rebecca and Edward – despite Eve pleading for the rogue to leave, should an officer walk in at any time and discover him so placidly observing like the entire operation is his favourite reality show. Yet he remains, infuriatingly adamant on witnessing this mad stratagem either fail or succeed.

The overall scheme is divided into four main components, focusing on the four primary factors that contribute to a crime family’s invulnerability; wealth, connections and numbers, businesses and the Don. These four elements are what make a crime family untouchable, like the four legs of a table. Take away one leg, and it is unstable. Take away two legs, and it is on an angle. Take away three legs, it has almost completely collapsed. Take away four legs, and the table is no more.

She checks the time; 11:59am. With Edward beside her merely spectating – not having commented upon her late arrival – and Bec seated in front of her, fingers hovering forebodingly over the centre keyboard, Eve greedily inhales one long breath of air, the remnants of her nerves fleeing with the exhale that follows. It’s not easy commandeering an operation as treacherous and unstable as this; if any of the people out there now were to be shot down, it would weigh on her conscience for the rest of her life. Each life lost would be an anvil, making the guilt heavier and heavier until it dragged her into the depths of depression, where there would be no return.

 _People are already dying,_ she internally bestows herself with a pep talk, sending her nerves retreating into the corners of her conscious. _Don’t do this for Two Face. Don’t do this for Edward. Don’t do this for Jim. Don’t do this for the Dark Knight. Don’t even do it for yourself. Do it for **them** , the people of this city who have endured every clown attack, fear onslaught, crocodile rampage, death puzzle, bloody shooting, plant invasion, robbery, rape, murder, blackmail and oppression from the most heinous criminals of this city. Show them that an average civilian does **not** need to sit back and let these convicted men and women subjugate them like there’s nothing they can do about it. This city is still capable of being saved; all they need is a glimmer, a **spark** of hope. Faith. I can give them that faith._

Her fingers curl around the walkie talkie, drawing it up to her rosy lips. The time now reads 12:00pm exactly, so with an iron will and steeled wits, she presses down on the button and politely commands “You are all a go. I repeat, initiate operation Fallen.”

It’s as if the world has been taken out of stasis. All at once, each monitor exhibits the modest sized squads breaking into action, and at the precise same time, Rebecca Daniels’ fingers dance dangerously over the keyboard, playing her part in this.

Stage One: Wealth. Hack into all of Salvatore Maroni’s bank accounts, and raid all of his hidden stashes.

Bec is a significant part of the first stage, the first leg. With hastily gathered documentation from legal liaisons and sources from Agent Brandon Daniels’ and Eve’s behalf, were the two able to cement firm evidence that a near seventy percent of Don Maroni’s funds is ‘dirty money’, obtained by unlawful and immoral means. Testimonies, statements, photos, confessions, documents and everything in between was quickly gathered to back this. And as for the rest of his money? Felony tax evasion. He failed to report any income on his tax forms, despite everyone in Gotham being quite aware of several of his upstanding businesses. The fine for this, of course, exceeds the remaining thirty percent of his funds that he legally obtained.

Because of all of that, and the fact that Rebecca Daniels has on an occasion lent her computational skills to the FBI as well as have a sibling high up in their ranks, was she granted permission to legally hack into and shut down his bank accounts, transferring the funds over to the FBI. Yet, as Eve and Bec discussed, it wouldn’t harm the FBI if a few hundred thousand occasionally went astray into charity accounts and businesses that Maroni has harmed in the past.

Eve observes as the psychiatrist expertly hacks into the allocated bank accounts – off-shore and otherwise. She can nearly sense the jaw drop from the Riddler from his surprise at how efficient and speedy Bec is, and if Eve was a more teasing human being, she would’ve goaded him for it.

The few places that physically hold Sal’s money don’t take too long to raid; a few agents and SWAT crew members are wounded in the exchange however. No casualties thus so far, but the private investigator attempts to refrain from jinxing it.

_“Cash in Warehouse 27A on the Northern docks is secured.”_

_“Cash in the Crowned Jewel Casino is secured.”_

_“Cash in the Diamondback Nightclub is secured.”_

Others call in with similar announcements, the operation so far seemingly going off without a hitch.

“Funds are transferring now Angie,” Bec informs, proudly cracking her knuckles as she slumps back into the soft, leather chair, allowing the money to transfer at its own pace. “Some of it may have wandered into orphanages, breast cancer foundations and charities of the like. But otherwise, it’s headed straight for the government. Like they don’t have enough money...”

“What about the Wayne Foundation and Wayne Enterprises?” Eve urgently prompts, a warped sense of seriousness so intricately lay upon her features that it urges perplexed looks from the other two members of the room.

Bec falters because of it. “I have... but I don’t understand why –”

“Wayne possesses enough wealth to outrank any mob member in this metropolitan. Why concern yourself with donating money to him?” Eve doesn’t fail to overlook the evident distaste within his tone when speaking of the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Bruce Wayne. The people of this city are quite divided over the Wayne boy; they either adore him or despise him. Eve has her own... _reasons_ as to why she is focused on him. None as menial as other women would usually presume though.

“Just setting up a potential player on the board for later,” she yet again softly dismisses, pertaining this mysterious, ominous air about her. She has for the past three days. “I do nothing without reason, so do not think I am without it.”

_“All cash locations are secure. Is stage two a go?”_

Eve diverts her attentions back onto the task at hand at the crackling voice from the walkie talkie, confirming “Yes. Engage when you are prepared.”

Stage Two: Connections and Numbers. Arrest all lawyers, judges, politicians, journalists, police officers, weapons dealers, guilty family members and members of the public that are bought off by the Maroni mob, and would be able to pull strings for their release. All hired muscle for the organised crime family is also to go.

Practically, this stage is the most strenuous. Most politicians and members of the public generally go without a physical altercation, only a petulant, testy uproar. Evangeline’s primary concern is the criminal element of Don Maroni’s army. Whether she likes it or not, there _will_ be casualties in this stage. The hired muscle and workers won’t go down without a fight.

They couldn’t just arrest any of them without good reason of course, so Eve had to collect all of the files Gordon bestowed upon her that contained contacts and workers of Sal Maroni. Upon doing so, she handed them over to the FBI to refine and gather the remaining dossiers and evidence on the rest of Maroni’s connections, which, undoubtedly, resulted in hours upon hours of research and calling in favours. Eve must send that division a fruit basket or something of the like when this has all blown over, for they definitely deserve to be commended on how quickly and efficiently they collected all the evidence.

Eve can do nothing but sadly watch the monitors as squad upon squad enters a location to arrest a Maroni tie. A wealthy aristocrat is nearly frothing at the mouth in anger, demanding to see her lawyer. A GCPD officer is pleading his comrades to believe he has no involvement with Salvatore Maroni, only to be wistfully shunned by the others. A common gang of thugs is taking up arms, unleashing a torrent of lead rain from their guns as the FBI, SWAT and few members of the GCPD does the same. Similar scenarios play out on the rest of the monitors, and with each body that drops from an altercation, does Eve flinch and grit her teeth firmer than a vice.

These are all people. People with families or friends. Knowing some of these thugs do what they do to draw in the money so they can put a meal on the table for their daughter, or pay for their partner’s hospital funds only brews a growing guilt inside the detective. Sure, they could’ve gone through less illegal means to obtain their income, but some of the stories behind the faces that fall or are arrested make Eve feel like a –

“You’re not a monster.”

Eve blinks away the heat and water glazing over her eyes, sparing the green clad rogue a questioning glance.

He huffs, appearing irritated yet it’s not wholehearted. “You’re painfully transparent when you’re thinking my dear. It makes reading your thoughts easier than a children’s book. These are immoral, depraved men and women; scum from the obtuse, degenerate element of this city. Deem me hypocritical if you must, but these people do not deserve such sickening sympathy. They chose their path, and they shall live their consequences. Most of them. At least, this way, they are receiving their justice by the law’s means, not by an imbecilic, meat-heated, flying rodent that relies upon his fancy toys, suit and military car. You are a private detective; he is a vigilante. What you do is more politically correct than him.”

“I do not wish to whine and think of what could have been for these people if I didn’t interfere,” Eve corrects, refusing to tear her focus from the men and women falling and being arrested. They deserved to be recognised in the very least. “But that does not mean I do not regret what will befall their families and some of them in turn. Justice is what we get when the decision is in our favour. _That_ is what justice is to everyone in this city. Of course, Batman generally seems to exempt that. Not all the time, but most of it.”

“Don’t give him any credit. He does not deserve such a thing,” the Riddler snaps, momentarily startling the North Carolinian. “He’s a charlatan; a barbaric thug. Whereas people like me are called to higher things – not that there are many others like me, you being a _possible_ exception. Surely you have noticed it by now detective; this city is filled to the rims with thick-headed brutes who control the streets and the primitives within them through violence and intimidation. These crimes families are no exception, nor the delinquents who operate in them. Why, the way I see it, you are doing this city a favour. You’re improving Gotham’s intellectual and moral standing, and in a manner that is far more refined than the so called Dark Knight’s. So, yet again, I repeat my sentiment that they do not deserve such regret or sympathy, therefore do not grant them it.”

Another Maroni thug is shot down at point blank range in a cafe, spurring another flinch from Eve. “Perhaps they don’t, but that’s who I am Edward. You may deem my sentiment and compassion as unnecessary or something that may be twisted to exploit me, but it is a part of me. It’s a part of how I get things done. Without it, I wouldn’t be me.”

“Mm, and you showed so much promise,” the Prince of Puzzles wistfully sighs, thick rimmed glasses requiring a marginal adjustment from where they sit atop the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, such crookedness an evident result from several broken noses over the years between himself and the Dark Knight Detective. “Ah well, there may still be hope for you yet. People do change after all.”

“People only dramatically change once in their lifetime,” Eve echoes a previous exchange between her and the Batman, brushing a soft, obsidian strand of her hair behind her petite ear. “Who’s to say I haven’t already?”

Edward arches an inquisitive eyebrow. “Care to elabor—”

_“Stage Two complete. All targets either subdued and arrested or deceased.”_

Evangeline elects to neglect the Prince of Puzzles for the time being, bringing the walkie talkie up and inquiring in a barely suppressed, despondent choke “And the casualties?”

_“Less than fifty on both sides, with thirty two injured.”_

“Thank you,” she utters so sulking and silent that the SWAT man on the other side nearly misses it. “Stage Three squads may commence the next stage.”

Stage Three: Businesses. Shut down every safe house, bar, business front, restaurant, dock, casino, warehouse, cafe and business under the possessorship and management of Salvatore Maroni.

In the long run, this stage is the most trying and arduous. Many a Gothamite – criminal or not – frequent a Maroni business, whether it is a lively, vivid casino or a sophisticated, aristocratic restaurant. Numerous civilians will petition for some of the business to reopen again, so seeking suitable new managers and owners of these businesses after the current employment is dealt with will be imperative.

This particular stage involved the most paperwork. In order for the Magistrate’s Court to release a Closure Order on a single business, there must be hard evidence on the specific grounds you are requesting that business to close for. For Eve, she aimed to close the business on the grounds that the person who owns the establishment has engaged, or is likely to engage in disorderly offensive or criminal behaviour on the premises. Key words being _on the premises_.

Once again, the amount of statements, photographical and film evidence from her security cameras that had to be gathered was nearly insurmountable. As you can imagine, the poor detective hasn’t slept a wink since her encounter with Two Face.

Civilians and criminals alike are bustling out of each establishment, the employees with enough dirt on them being arrested on sight. Some employees are, of course, oblivious to the illegal wrong-doings that go on in the establishment. Maroni isn’t the most trusting of mob Dons. Not that any mob Don is exceptionally trusting, let alone a mob Don in Gotham City.

The safe houses, docks and warehouses take the most time to clear out, for they are the most criminally infested. Yet again do bullets fly, making their mark on both sides. Fortunately for everyone involved, are there not casualties this time. Only wounded.

Within the half hour are all the buildings cleared out and closed, Edward offering the pair of women in the room the occasional snide or condescending remark regarding Maroni, the businesses or even Rebecca when she comments on his egotism. When Eve radios in to ask if stage four is ready to commence, she receives a response that hardly catches her off guard.

_“We were lined up outside Detective Winter, but Salvatore Maroni made a run for it before we could be given the order to engage. He only left behind a note, presumably for you.”_

“What does it say?” Patience is carefully woven into her tone, a surprising act from a woman who hasn’t slept soundly since the night in Crime Alley due to a man whom _just_ slipped from her grasp.

_“It says ‘I know a thing or two about respect, so how about you give me the courtesy of seeing the one who has slew me so. I await your arrival.’ Any idea what that exactly insinuates ma’am?”_

“I know _exactly_ what that means sir,” Eve contently smiles, a smile a bit too expectant for Edward or Rebecca’s liking. The private investigator carelessly tosses the walkie talkie aside, abandoning the other two in her office so quickly they almost miss her when they blink.

Both adamantly follow her into the living room conjoined with the kitchen, Rebecca exasperatedly inquiring “Where the _hell_ do you think you’re going? And don’t you dare fucking say it’s to actually meet this dick-prick.”

“For lack of better, more sophisticated and less vulgar language, I regretfully must agree with your primitive companion. He’ll undoubtedly have reinforcements, and has obviously set a trap. You’ll be a sitting duck,” Edward perplexedly points out, not possessing the faintest idea why she would rashly risk her life so. “And don’t expect my help on this matter my dear. I’m no knight in shining armour or dark cape. You’re alone.”

“Like hell she is,” Rebecca agitatedly scowls at the Riddler, turning a pinch softer when her attention is devoted to her best friend. “You _can’t_ go in alone.”

“You know me Bec,” Eve absentmindedly assures as he throws on her iconic white coat, approaching the door and momentarily pausing halfway through it to cast the psychiatrist a brief glance. “I never dive head on into a situation without at least five plans up my sleeve. I left an address in the top drawer of my office bench on the right hand side; send the authorities to it in _exactly_ half an hour. I have everything under control.”

And with that last thought, does Evangeline Winter flock to where Salvatore Maroni is awaiting her. The place where it all began.

Park Row, aka, Crime Alley.

***

_NOW – JANUARY 31 st, 2016 – PARK ROW, GOTHAM CITY_

It’s a bit cliché, in Eve’s opinion, but Gotham criminals seem to flock to some clichés like moths to the tantalizing flame. But she finds herself there, nonetheless, for that seems to be what Maroni wants.

To end it where it began.

Despite not having spied on the event with her own eyes – only listening in – the moment Eve turned the corner that night, could she see where everyone had been. Where they stood, where they walked, where they breathed, where they talked. Foot imprints on the dusty floor, blotches of blood that decorated the alley like a grotesque Jackson Pollock painting, the still alive yet dying butts of cigars and cigarettes littering the concrete. All of it formed a scene, a scene she had heard, but hadn’t seen until she turned that corner.

She does the same now, hoping that her intuition of where Maroni wanted to meet is correct. There isn’t really anywhere else significant that both of them had been, or somewhere Eve would be acutely aware of. Luckily, her leap of faith bestows her with the gift of accuracy, for the moment she does take her turn, is she met with a stunningly well-dressed man, with hair and eyes as dark as his suit.

Eve knows that mafia like to keep up appearances, and that’s essential they do so. This especially applies to the Dons of each family, but seeing how clean-cut and precise Salvatore Maroni is dressed still impresses Eve. What impresses her even more so is how composed and professional he is, as if she just hadn’t completely dissembled his entire business and life’s work.

He seems surprised to see her, scrutinisingly taking up her appearance like warlord surveying to see if his enemy is worthy of his presence. The look almost reminds her of Edward’s constant intense examining. _Do the criminals of this city not spare the time of day for someone if they don’t appear worthy enough? Whatever happened to wit? Actions? Resolve? Surely appearance alone can’t be anything to off on._ Sure, she knows she’s hypocritical thinking such a thing, for all she really does if go off on appearances herself, but she can read a person’s life story from their appearance. Most people in this city – she presumes, anyway – merely look at someone and judge if they are worthy from the brand of their clothes and state of their physical appearance.

Salvatore Maroni seems to be no exemption to that.

“You are the one that that has taken everything from me?” The Mob Boss almost sounds incredulous when he addresses her; sceptical that she is capable of something so grand and presumably impossible to pull off. “You are the one that was here that night?”

Eve modestly smiles, yet with a certain amount of control. “I am. I was. And I am sorry it had to come down to this, for I know that you aren’t the one at fault. Not truly. Alberto Falcone is to blame, but Don Markovic and Don O’Reilly weren’t going to stop until you were dealt with. Trust me when I say this though, Alberto will be brought to justice just the same. You’re not alone in this persecution.’’

“I am _not_ being controlled, let alone by some measly, snivelling boy of Carmine Falcone’s,” Maroni sniffs, the Italian accent magnificently rolling off his tongue. “I’ve merely grown tired of no action. My old man sat and took what the other families dealt him, and all I could do was sit by and let it happen. He was weak, and an arrogant, old fool.”

“That’s why you killed him,” Eve somehow manages to innocently accuse, taking two meaningful steps forward. Still no security guards in sight, causing Eve to ponder if his pride lead him to do this alone, or if his security guards bolted after all that has happened. Maybe both. “Kill him, and you could rebuild the Maroni family in all of its glory. Contrary to killing him all by yourself, I must disagree with you on you doing this by yourself. You may be ambitious and tenacious, Mr Maroni, but even you know, deep down, that this mob war is a waste of time and resources. It’s does nothing but spill blood. You know it could have been avoided, and you would have avoided it. But there was a part of you, a part of you that pushed, and pushed and pushed you to kill them.” Each step Eve takes as she talks is always with purpose, always with meaning. It is a bit off-putting, how a seemingly normal, everyday woman could stalk towards such a dangerous and well known crime boss of Gotham City as if she is the lioness stalking her prey. Like a hound circling a fox.

Salvatore Maroni falters, not because of her eerie approach, but because of how her words seem dangerously familiar to him. “I... I did kill them on my own accord. You should learn to respect and not question such an influential criminal in this city of all cities –”

“You _were_ influential, Mr Maroni. But I took that all away from you. Took away your life, like you took away theirs,” the private investigator sadly points out, halting a couple meters away from him with a softly worn face of sympathy. “And I _am_ sorry I did so. They’re empty words to you, I know, but you must understand I couldn’t let this go on in good conscious. Innocents were dying.”

“Since when did anyone care about the innocents of this city!?” His outburst is sudden, unexpected. Like an abrupt punch to the gut. “Innocents and people die each day. That’s what people DO! But you...” Within moments, his gun and slipped free of its holster underneath his blazer, cocked steadily at the North Carolinian’s head. “You think that you can just come from whatever Southern country you’re from and shake up the natural order in this city? You disrespect every mob boss and criminal who has worked hard and earned what they have. Rome wasn’t built in a day. People like me spent their lives upholding, building and improving their empires, and you _waltz_ on in like you own the joint and _take mine down in a day_!” He stalks towards her, the cold, unforgiving barrel of the gun now directly against the private investigator’s forehead.

Perhaps it’s her lack of sleep. Perhaps it’s because she’s met three rogues in the span of five days. Perhaps it’s because she’s been in the presence of Batman, the one man in this city that terrifies every criminal, including this one. Perhaps it’s because she just witnessed too many people die for this ridiculous, petty war. Whatever it may be, for some unidentified reason, Evangeline Winter feels completely numb at the fact a gun is resting precariously against her head, the small, round exit for the bullet creating a small indent into her skin from the pressure. She couldn’t care. She’s been through _too damn much_ to be scared and give in now, and this _criminal_ will not deter her from her course, gun or not.

“You did that to yourself, the moment you stood over there and put two bullets in between the eyes of two people. People who were to be married,” Eve evenly replies, jutting her head in the direction of where he stood. Where she _knew_ he stood.

His mood darkens even more, if that is even possible. He walks, carefully, slowly, pointedly to where he stood when he shot them. Where he shot Alexandra Markovic and Sean O’Reilly. “Then I suppose it is poetic justice that I shoot you from this exact same spot.”

Eve’s lips quirk in that perceptive smile that conveys she knows more than she lets on. “No, Mr Maroni. It is poetic justice that you are to be shot in that exact same spot.”

_BANG – THUMP._

Eve remains where she stands for a few moments longer, not having moved an inch, even when the gun went off. She removes her hands from her white coat pockets tenderly, ambling over to Salvatore Maroni who’s currently writhing on the floor in immense pain, clutching the bullet wound in his arm like it’s on fire.

The private investigator crouches to the concrete smoothly, swiftly picking up the discarded firearm and removing the cartridges from it as Maroni glares at her with all the hate in the world. “ _How_?”

“I know your type, Mr Maroni,” Eve softly confesses, dissembling the gun leisurely and pocketing it in her coat. “I knew you would get away, you clearly had enough time to do so. There was only one place you would meet me at, one place we are both sorely familiar with. I visited here earlier on, before I jumpstarted my operation, and put in place a motion sensor. When you set it off, it triggered a gun I had rigged. All I had to do was to persuade you to stand where you stood that night, something you did all too eagerly for me. Thank you.”

His glower could melt metal. “Who the _hell_ do you think you are?”

 “I am who I am,” she mysteriously answers, enjoying dragging out the cliché a bit longer. “There are people out there, as you well know, that do what they do for money, power, freedom, revenge, love and everything in between. There are also people who do what they do without a logical, materialistic reason. People like the Joker, who stand by and idly watch the world be eaten by chaos’ fire, fanning the flames where he can. But, just as there are people like the Joker who only want to watch the world burn, there are people like me. People that will tread across a thousand deserts, through a thousand hurricanes, across a thousand seas and over a thousand mountains to deliver the buckets of water that douse the flames. For what reason? For the simple reason that we _don’t_ want to watch the world burn. Just like the Joker, we can’t be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. The only thing that sets people like me apart from people like the Joker, are the flames, and our part with them.”

“You’re as insane as the Bat, thinking you can change a damn thing in this city,” he scowls, wincing and hissing like a provoked animal when Eve hauls him up and pulls his arms behind his back, locking the pair of cuffs Gordon leant her onto his wrists.

“I think he’s changed lots,” she admits, trying to adjust the cuffs so they are more comfortable on his behalf. “But it’s about time this city was changed in ways that abide more by the law, and more by the people. Now you better put on your best smile Mr Maroni, for I imagine quite a few people await us around the corner.”

And quite a few people there are.

The GCPD and FBI block off as many civilians as they can, but in the end, there are only so many of them there in that moment, and so many more curious civilians to overpower them. Gordon stands there in all his weary, wise glory, moustache tugging up in a relieved, comforting smile.

Eve pushes Maroni out first, as softly as she can whilst still maintaining a firm grip on him. Cameras flash, people gasp, news reporters swarm around the yellow police tape like hornets. Eve pays them little to no mind, handing the fallen mob boss over to Jim Gordon. “I believe he still needs to be read his rights, otherwise you can't use, for most purposes, anything he says as evidence against him at trial.”

Gordon in turn chuckles tiredly, handing over Maroni to yet another officer as he is read his rights. The Commissioner turns back to the North Carolinian patiently staring at him, and draws her in to a concerned hug, as brief as it is. “You damn well have him wrapped up and ready for me. All you’re missing is the bow.”

“Local department store was out of red ribbon,” Eve rationalises, jokingly pulling an appalled expression. “Scandalous.”

“I’m sure it is,” the Commissioner laughs, distractedly watching Salvatore Maroni being sat in the police cruiser with a permanent scowl on his face. “You know, when I started out in this city as a low level cop, I never thought I would see the day that a crime boss would fall by any legal means, let alone a Maroni, the second most powerful mafia family in this city.” His worn, blue eyes find Eve, twinkling with something she hasn’t fully seen in Jim’s eyes before. Hope. “You’ve given hope to the men and women down at the precinct that what they’re doing isn’t meaningless. That little people like us can make a difference, even without Batman. That you don’t need a mask to go out and do what’s right. Come tomorrow, and it won’t just be the people at the GCPD who think so.”

“Please don’t make me out to be a saint Jim,” Eve pleads, but is too tired to do so whole-heartedly. “I just did what needed to be done. I did what anyone down at the precinct would have done if given the chance, you included.”

“We’ve been given the chance before Eve, countless times. What you did, whether you like the terming or not, was heroic. Batman may be a vigilante, this city’s Dark Knight, but _you_ are a hero. A Guardian Angel.”

“Don’t you _dare_ tell the papers about that nickname,” she playfully warns, yet she’s entirely serious. “I’ll never hear the end of it, and I am _not_ some Guardian Angel. Guardian, maybe, but Angel? I’m sure that’s blasphemous.”

“Say what you want kid,” Gordon relents, ruffling her hair in a fatherly manner. “But like I said, come tomorrow, you’ll see what everyone thinks of you. Thirty bucks they mention the name ‘Angel’ at least once.”

“You still owe me for pulling off the entire thing,” Eve jocosely reminds him, the two leisurely making their way towards Jim’s car. “A drink, remember? You’re losing enough money as it is old man.”

“Old man? Who are you calling an old man? I could kick your ass three times over in a fight Winter,” Jim gruffly challenges, failing to repress a smile when Eve turns on him with an amused glow about her.

“Oh I don’t know, I just _did_ take down the second most influential and powerful mob man in this city. Think you could top that _old man_?”

“Dear God, it’s already getting to your head,” he jokes, opening the passenger seat door for her to get in. “They’ll be no living with you after Alberto Falcone is dealt with.”

“Surely the Riddler has given you enough training in living with big egos,” Eve swiftly responds, earning a chuckle from Jim as he gets in the driver’s seat.

“I suppose that’s true,” the Commissioner concedes, momentarily checking his phone and sighing when he spots the time. “But today isn’t over yet. Our mutual friend wants to have a word with you once the sun has set. Wanna come down to the precinct and help out with some of the legalities and paper work from the after effects of this operation of yours? You can talk with him atop GCPD afterwards.”

“I don’t see why not,” Eve kindly agrees, blocking her face from some of the paparazzi that are running up to the car as it drives off in hopes of getting a photo of her. “It’s the least I can do, considering the amount of paperwork I have undoubtedly left for you and the officer to attend to. Battling the monsters of paperwork is a war that you can never win.”

Within the first hour of accepting to help Jim however, does Eve immediately regret it.

She likes to help. She _loves_ to help. But she didn’t realise how much paperwork there actually is. Five hours are wasted away on it, and Eve is only relieved of it when the sun’s fatigue lures it to fall to rest, prompting the Dark Knight of Gotham City to come out.

She sits there, atop GCPD with a permanent smile on her face, bright enough to light up the entire rooftop. In spite of the mountains of papers that wait for her down stairs, the smile has refused to budge from her lips since this entire mob war has ended. One of Gordon’s inside men reported that Carmine Falcone called for a truce now that Maroni has been taken care of, and after all the blood that has been shed – their kids’ included – Dmitri Markovic and Colin O’Reilly were all too pleased to agree. It seems even the other big mob bosses of this city would take the chance to fall into Don Falcone’s good graces again.

With the warm mug she nestles in hand, Evangeline Winter gazes up to try and discern the stars through the city’s light pollution, and amongst it all, only manages to find one. But one is a start. One is all someone needs to start. That day, Eve had proven that.

“I thought I told you to drop it.”

He still frightens her, not as much as he used to, but still enough so. She cranes her neck to spot the dark, caped crusader moving about the rooftop with a guided ease, the wind still refusing to disturb his presence. Her smile only broadens when she sees him, after her little jolt at his sudden arrival. “And I thought I told you to consider than bell. One of these days I’m going to have a heart attack and then where will you be without me?”

“Down one stubborn private investigator,” Batman’s gravelly, baritone grinds out, manoeuvring towards her in a similar way Eve did to Maroni not six hours ago, only a tad more looming and intimidating.

Eve clutches her heart mockingly with her spare hand, a pitiful expression on her face, yet still wearing that immovable smile. “Oh, you _wound_ me Dark Knight. Here I thought we shared a special connection. On another note, I did notice that one Alberto Falcone was brought in forty minutes ago. I wonder if you had any part to play in that, considering he was tied upside down outside of GCPD –”

“He’ wasn’t hard to find. Tried to make a run for it, terrified what his father was going to do to him when he found out. But that’s not why I’m here. You could’ve died,” he presses, finding himself in no gaming mood tonight. He never truly is. “What then? You cannot think and act so brashly. Whether you realise it or not it _will_ cost others.”

“Why do you put on that cowl and go out every night Batman?” The raven haired woman rhetorically asks, pushing herself off the ledge and stopping barely a foot away from the wall of a man. “For whatever your answer is, is similar to mine I imagine. Just because I wasn’t born in this city, doesn’t mean I don’t care for the people inside of it. Each life counts. Each life is important. I am not God, I do not decide who lives, dies and who does or doesn’t deserve to be saved. I do not make judgements, and I do not force my beliefs upon others, but I _do_ care. Very few share my sentiment, but I grow rather tired of having to repeat myself over and over in this city. People here seem incapable of believing that I do what I do purely because it is right by the law, and by others. People here seem incapable of trusting others at first glance and presuming that they have some ulterior motive for helping others. Well, newsflash Dark Knight, but _I care_.”

For a while, no sound passes between them. Cars blare around the bustling streets, the wind howled like wolves on a full moon in the night, shouts of various Gothamites could be heard throughout each corner, but on that rooftop, it sounds so quiet Eve almost chokes on the silence. The air feels heavy, solid, like it did that night in Crime Alley. Breathing was like trying to swallow bricks.

“You know what happens next.” His voice, although still impossibly low and deep, is softer, as if the edges of it have been sanded down. “They’ll come after you. All of them. The mobs won’t take kindly to you disrupting the order they had established.”

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet,” she shrugs, and shivers course down her spine like a bolt of lightning. Whether it’s from their proximity or the night air, she doesn’t know. “And besides, I still have your number. After a few testing prank calls, I’m sure I can rely on you to help me if it really comes down to it... right?” She doesn’t like feeling this helpless and pathetic, but physically, Eve is no good in a fight. Her brother tends to cover that department for her, but until he arrives, she’s vulnerable. Eve may be stubborn, but she’s also realistic. She wouldn’t stand a chance against a mob by herself, especially now that there is a name and face to the mole that was in Park Row that night.

So whilst she feels rather pathetic in asking for his help, she, by no physical means, can defend herself. All she has is her wit and intuition, which generally help her out of most situations, but can’t help her out of _all_ of them.

“I gave you that number for a reason Miss Winter,” the Dark Knight assures her, spotting the nerves building up behind her hazel gaze. “But try not to get yourself killed, regardless.”

“Believe it or not it’s not an active sport I engage in,” she wittily replies, gentle hands retreating into coat pockets. “But... thank you. Without you, I probably wouldn’t have been able to complete this case. Your help means a lot. And please, call me Eve. I’ve been needing to say that for a while now. Miss Winter makes me feel old.”

“Don’t mention it, and very well, Eve,” he says, not as tersely as usual. Thick, cumbersome combat boots scrape against the gravel of the rooftop as he abandons her where she stands; his broad, bulky shoulders turning and moving with his equally mammoth chest. Even with the rough, military style suit and one hundred and one gadgets between them, the moment he moves away, Eve feels cold. Like she was basking in the warmth of Summer, when its suddenly snatched from her and replaced with the cold conditions of Winter once again.

The thirty four year old woman worries her lower lip between her teeth as she watches him leave, pondering on whether she should utter her next words or not. _To hell with it, I’ve had a long day._ “You should stop by more often. My apartment, I mean.” The steps stop, jarringly so, but he says nothing, allowing her to continue. “You seem like the kind of guy who unnecessarily places the weight of the world on his shoulders, and when offered the chance to share the load, refuses. No man is an island Dark Knight. Even if it’s a couple simple cases you may need a hand in behind the scenes, or if you simply wish to discuss something crime related or otherwise. You’re not invincible, and I don’t understand why you punish yourself so. So please, at one point or another, take me up on this offer. If not for yourself than for the others that care around you.”

Alfred reprimands him constantly under the same or similar concerns, as does Barbara and Tim. Letting people he considers family in on his inner turmoil has always been rough, for he doesn’t want them to bear the weight either. Just like he doesn’t want a woman like Evangeline Winter to bear the weight of his problems. Of _him_. Something about her spells inviting, however. Something about the way she looks at him so softly as if he were to break before her eyes or as if she wanted to pull him in and frighten off the nightmares of the world, makes something in the Dark Knight’s chest twinge.

Every time he’s surrounded himself with a woman, it has been with someone who is tough as nails, can quite clearly handle herself, and doesn’t essentially care if she hurts someone in achieving what she strives for. Talia Al Ghul, Selina Kyle, even his brief fling with the tenacious Vicki Vale. And whilst Eve is just as strong-willed and more than handle herself in this city. She just proved that. But something about her is... kinder, than other women he’s gotten involved with, and involved is a very loose term. Nothing serious has ever arisen between him and Selina, just the flirting on her behalf and how he makes no move to stop her.

In the end though, Bruce Wayne doesn’t think he deserves to engage with a woman so kind and ethical, a shining beacon in a cloud of darkness. But the way she stares him so desperate, so pleading, he does consider indulging her concerns, even if it is only from time to time.

“I’ll think about it,” he sternly acquiesces, but the simple words brighten Eve’s smile even more. “No promises.”

“All I ask is for you to feel human, even for a little while. It’s easy to forget you’re a man underneath that cowl, and not just some relentless force of nature that strikes fear into the hearts of criminals,” the private investigator says, her consideration not gone unnoticed by the Caped Crusader. “And you are a man, Dark Knight. Men stumble; men fall, just like women do. But why do we fall?”

She tenderly leans forward and grasps his burly hand, turning him to briefly face her. “So we can learn to pick ourselves up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a reallllllyyyyy important chapter, because from here on out, you'll begin to notice a shift amongst Eve and the other characters. After all, Maroni was supposed to be some big untouchable gangster, but alas, here we are. Hope this was at least semi-believable! Then again, this is based off actual comic book characters in a world with aliens, Amazonians, meta humans, Atlanteans, etc. so I suppose it's pretty alright in the big scheme of things?? I think?
> 
> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	11. Gotham's Guardian Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember re-writing this chapter too many times for my liking. Hope it's okay as a result?

_“There’s no freedom quite like the freedom of being constantly underestimated.”_ ~ Scott Lynch, _The Lies of Locke Lamora_

The English language is, perhaps, one of the most complex human languages with one of the most dynamic and richest histories. Old English – such as _The Three Musketeers_ by Alexandre Dumas, _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Brontë or _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Charles Dickens – is written so intricately and beautifully with a certain finesse, that very few gifted writers are capable of properly executing it.

 Some people communicate in these beautiful, elegant forms of speech as well. Yet, of course, in matters concerning the sophistication and tact of such a skilful way of expression, there will always be at least but one individual that refrains from even attempting such etiquette and delicacy. In the case of Evangeline Mendax Winter, that would, unfortunately and fortunately, be in the form of her closest confidant; Rebecca Daniels.

“Fucking shit balls piss—! Ange! Your face is spread all over these damn papers like jam on toast!”

Well, at least she possesses the decency to throw in a simile.

Eve, still in her cotton pyjamas after enduring the most peaceful and successful night of slumber since arriving in this fixer-upper of a city, runs a sleepy hand through her mop of raven waves, fingers dragging it to the edges of where it ends millimetres below the nape of her neck. Rubbing her lethargic hazel eyes, the North Carolinian momentarily neglects the over-energised blonde with the thick rimmed glassed as she, in a rare moment of inelegance, lumbers into the room, opting for her annual cup of early morning tea instead. “Mm, that’s great Bec.”

The blonde psychiatrist frowns, black rimmed glasses slipping down her nose in correspondence with her deflation. “You’re not listening to me, are you?”

With the water now boiling dutifully, Eve carelessly throws a couple slices of toast into the toaster, absent-mindedly checking the setting isn’t too high. “Mm, that’s great Bec.”

“No, it’s not! Now all the Gotham criminals know what your face looks like! You’re an official target not only with a name, but a mother fucking face!” Bec attempts to urge the seriousness of the situation upon her drowsy friend, yet doesn’t dare to try and stand up to do so. Her legs are too entangled within the sheets of the sofa bed that with any endeavour to untangle herself, it would most likely end up with her landing face first onto the mat and floorboards.

“Mm, that’s great Bec.”

_To hell with face planting,_ Bec scowls, tossing and tumbling like a gauche fish out of water until the confirming sound and feeling of face meeting floorboard graces the morning air of the Winter household. _Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty._

Springing up like a wack-a-mole, Rebecca Daniels strides over to the kitchen with the crinkled newspaper in hand, slamming it down mercilessly upon the kitchen island counter and abruptly standing in the detective’s immediate line of sight to garner her undivided attention. “Riddler, Scarecrow and Two Face won’t be the only ones you need to worry about anymore Ange. Don’t you get it? I know you were aware of what you were getting yourself into when you started this, but _this_? You’re a dead woman walking.”

“Many people have told me I should quit, but I have not yet finished proving them wrong,” Eve languidly mumbles, fair arms crossing over one another in front of her loose pyjama top. “I’ve only just started with this city. Edward thinks he’s so smart, thinks he’s been playing me since we met – but even he, one person I thought had refrained from underestimating me, is wrong. He thinks that being associated with me now that the criminals in this city are scrambling in chaos from the fall of the Maroni crime family is advantageous to him. And it is, I suppose, in a way. But he thinks that everyone will now have to confer with _him_ if they wish to get to me. He didn’t account for two other players on the board.”

“Who?”

“Two Face and Batman.”

When Bec blinks unfathomably in perplexity at her friend’s answers, Eve patiently sighs and leisurely pours her cup of tea. “All of this Bec? I’ve planned it from the start. I knew Jim’s inclinations to consult with the Dark Knight Detective would lead him to keep an eye on me. I knew that because of their friendship, I would also find an ally in the Caped Crusader. It’s not manipulation, not exactly, because I do wish to find a future ally and possible friend in Batman, but I needed to catch his attention to do so.”

“What about Janus?”

Eve snorts, sparing Bec an amused glance. “Janus?”

“Roman God that has two faces, I thought it’d be fitting,” the blonde shrugs, rummaging gracelessly through the cupboards and pinching the Lucky Charms box out from one.

With her entertainment still apparent over her glazed eyes, Eve continues “Anyway, Two Face was formerly a wild card up my sleeve. Due to his instability and the chance that I may not be greeted with the appropriate Face upon the time of our meeting, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go any further with him. I knew that if I poked around his café and set up cameras around his business establishments that I would be notorious enough to grab his attention at one stage or another. The fact that Edward discovered one of said cameras and began his association with me probably saved my behind more than I realise, but either way, Dent would’ve approached me nonetheless. I knew if I could calm him down and talk enough reason into him that he’d let me do my work, and holding the blessing of the _only_ notorious crime lord that is favourable to the rogues _and_ the crime families should’ve and _did_ allow me to do my work without any further disturbances. For three days, I was figuratively invulnerable to take down Salvatore Maroni. And now? Now he will either hold a grudging respect for me and try to arrange a deal where I don’t pursue him and his men in exchange for leaving me alone or – by some miracle – even protection or a favour, or he’ll try to have me killed. Having read so much about Harvey Dent however, the likelihood he’ll talk his more erratic half into leaving me be is rather high.”

“So you’re telling me that you played Batman, Riddler, Two Face and the Commissioner to get you invulnerability and the help of not only those on the side of the law, but those opposing it as well?” Bec gapes, and Eve is rather thankful that there isn’t any half eaten Lucky Charms currently in her mouth. “You _played_ some of the biggest players in this city, and they – in turn without even realising it – played the rest of the big players all in your favour?”

“Well, that’s a rather simplified version of it, but yes, yes I did,” Eve confirms, blowing on her steaming cup of tea softly like it’d break under too much pressure.

For quite a few moments, Bec has to wrap her head around how much of a genius her best friend actually is. She wears the innocence and beauty of an angel, but twists and pulls at the strings of others like a marionette without the cause of having get her hands dirty _once_. Exiting the comfort of her own home to arrest Maroni herself was a courtesy – a tip of the hat to the other major player who deserved the respect between them. Yet even then she herself didn’t pull the trigger, she had set it up prior to their encounter knowing he would return the scene of the crime; the one place where they are both familiar with, and where it all started.

She had visited Alberto Falcone in his cell last night as well; congratulating him on how he outsmarted the rest of the crime families and even his own father. Bec frowned when the investigator told her that, thinking that perhaps that wasn’t quite appropriate, but Eve has always been sort of odd in that respect. Everyone is on an equal playing field to the private detective, and when individuals start to rise to prove otherwise, Eve ever so innocently knocks them back down to everyone else’s level and applauds them for their level of intelligence to get that far. Sometimes it astounds the other North Carolinian how nice yet sharp her best friend can be, only reminding her to never get on her bad side (though, she’s never scary in the sense of being angry – she couldn’t appear scary by being angry even if she was converted into some kind of She-Hulk).

Their morning reverie is interrupted by a light _ping_ from Eve’s phone, alerting her of an incoming text. Evangeline notes it’s from Jim, requesting her to come down to the precinct to talk about the predicament involving her face planted over every paper in Gotham.

Sighing, the private investigator is quick to finish her hasty breakfast and tea, merely throwing on a singlet, a crimson sweater, some jeans and her white coat before uttering a farewell to the psychiatrist as she slips out the door.

Upon arriving at the GCPD, she receives another incoming text, this time from the Prince of Puzzles himself.

_I must say, I didn’t think I’d see the day where the Maroni family would fall from an everyday peon of society such as yourself. I don’t compliment people often, so consider this my congratulations. Someone has finally met my expectations. –_ E. Nygma

Her thumbs are quick to reply, skilled in practice as they slide and tap over the screen.

_Then consider me flattered Edward. However, I do have one last request from you should you feel generous enough to tell me. Where does Two Face spend most of his time? I wish to share a few choice words with the man. –_ E. Winter

Edward appears to be an even more adept texter than herself.

_It is unwise to pursue trouble and misfortune in such delicate times like these. –_ E. Nygma

_I like trouble. –_ E. Winter

_Very well, your funeral. Hell’s Gate Legal and Waste Disposal Services would be your best bet. However, due to the current circumstances and uproar in the criminal underground you have created, I highly doubt you will need to search for them very far. –_ E. Nygma

Eve pauses, wavering worriedly. _Them. He said them. Not him. Is he suggesting that the **other** crime families or rogues will seek me out as well?_ The thought unsettles Eve to no ends, greying her hairs in dread and restlessness.

_How long will it take? –_ E. Winter

She knows she not need ask more than that, entirely aware that Edward is astute enough to understand her vague inquiry.

_At the rate they’re panicking, within 48 hours. –_ E. Nygma

***

_“In the latest news, Private Investigator, Evangeline Winter, has taken Gotham by storm. Many are calling her this city’s ‘Guardian Angel’ for being the first person to organise and execute a successful operation that was capable of dissembling and taking down an entire crime family inside the jurisdiction of the law. Being the brains behind the entire affair, Miss Winter –”_

“I don’t think I’ve seen the city this restless since you started your own crusade, Mr Wayne,” Lucius Fox impartially states – with a pinch of amusement – as he approaches the billionaire pensively overlooking the city like a guardian through his wall of windows, an expression on his face that is seemingly unreadable, until you take a peek at the turmoil in his eyes. 

The TV now plays unheard near them, background noise to their conversation. “I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“Can’t it be a bit of both?” Fox offers, ambling to a stop right beside the vigilante. “The way I see it, all of this is simply an announcement, _her_ announcement. She’s making herself known to the other players on the board.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Never said it was Mr Wayne, but to characters like the Joker, it is. And she just crashed the party without an invitation. There won’t be many who take kindly to that.”

“I know. I’ve got it handled, I’ve got her handled,” Bruce Wayne stoically assures, fruitlessly adjusting his already immaculate suit and dusting the non-existent dust and grime from its blazer.

That all-knowing smile briefly graces the elder man’s lips. “I have no doubts. She’ll need it, after all. Whether she realises it or not. A good way to keep an eye on her would be to actually attend the annual Winter Gala held by the mayor this year, tomorrow night.”

The billionaire’s dark eyebrow arches. “She’s going?”

“The woman just stopped one of the worst mob wars this city has seen; you tell me.”

“Better find a new suit then,” Bruce mentally adds onto his checklist, eyes still enraptured by the world below he so faithfully defends and loves as the Bruce Wayne mask slips back on. The life of Bruce Wayne is nothing but a mask for the one, true life he lives when the night wraps around the city like a blanket. Bruce Wayne, however, is quite the favoured mask if he must adopt one. His position furthers his life as the Caped Crusader in a way that could never be accomplished should he have been born the average Gothamite.

Pondering over the night before, Wayne’s lips thin. “The car was a bit slow last night Lucius. The tyres are losing traction as well.”

“I’ll look into it Mr Wayne,” the CEO of Wayne Enterprises automatically guarantees, otherwise wordlessly conveying his farewell for now before pausing soundlessly in the doorway with a recollection of his former intentions. “Oh, and I took the liberty of looking at the company’s funds this morning. It seems the Wayne Enterprises _and_ the Wayne Foundation has a generous admirer out there; eight hundred thousand dollars from an anonymous bank account was transferred to each yesterday evening. A couple hours prior to Mr Maroni’s arrest.”

This piques Bruce’s interest, for the first time drawing his cerulean eyes from the bustling life of the empire outside. “Anonymous?”

Fox’s lips momentarily quirk, knowingly. “Anonymous. Seems like a guardian angel is watching over your business Mr Wayne.”

_“– has inspired many citizens around Gotham to do better against the incorrigible crime that ravages this city. Yet, many also fear that this feat will not have gone unnoticed by the other more colourful characters, notably the Gotham’s Rogue’s Gallery or more likely, the other crime families. How do the other criminals of this city feel about this? How do they feel about the balance that was once thought to be set in stone amongst their numbers? More on Evangeline Winter and Salvatore Maroni later. In other news, the Mayor’s Winter Gala will reach new heights tomorrow night…”_

***

To speak of the atmosphere spread amongst the few patrons within the aristocratic restaurant, one would instantly discern it as invariably strained and capriciously unsettled. Five men encompass a single table, the establishment all but scarce besides them and a handful of their men scattered here and there – none within a ten metre radius of the table of five.

Five. Five reasons why Evangeline Winter should fear for far more than her own life.

These five men know of her whereabouts at that very moment, at the very hour of midday; at the GCPD precinct with the dear Commissioner Gordon, labouring over the last of the paper work and arrangements for Salvatore Maroni and all his men’s court hearings. These five men, these five _reasons_ why Eve shall never quite experience normality again, know where she is down to the very _room_ she is in, yet here they sit, each as highly precarious as the next.

“She’s a problem. This shouldn’t be up for debate – we deal with her just as we deal with any other problem.”

Reason number one; Roman “Black Mask” Sionis.

Sionis is worn and haggard under his iconic, wicked mask; bottomless brown eyes unsettlingly unblinking underneath it, the only part of his face exposed for the world to see. Calloused, course fingers drum impatiently on the shared table, lunch untouched. White pinstriped suit is as immaculate and flawless as each suit on the man next to him and as each man after that. Black Mask is as easy a man to read as any, despite a mask conveniently concealing all expressions that may be conveyed. So each of the remaining four men at the table can tell when he has reached a volatile, temperamental mood – another reason why they often don’t include him in their discussions, this proving to be an exception.

“But she’s not like ‘just any other problem’, is she? As of yesterday, the Maroni empire is in complete shambles; an empire that has been around since the very beginning of this city. Is it wrong of me to find that impressive?”

Reason number two; Colin “Pretty Boy” O’Reilly.

O’Reilly wears milky, fair skin rough with stress despite not being _that_ old, a slightly warmer hue from the remnants of the summer and autumn sun. Obsidian coloured stubble offers a 5 o’clock shadow as sharp as his tongue when he wills it, with dangerously reassuring azure eyes that tempt your trust and comfort like the sweet allure of a Venus fly trap to the common fly. In spite of being the friendliest of the five, to underestimate Colin O’Reilly would be, perhaps, the gravest and last mistake you could make. With a number of connections that would even make Carmine Falcone’s head spin; there is nothing in this city that happens or _will_ happen without either his say so or his awareness of it. Needless to say, he was the first man Two Face made an ally and possible friend out of the moment his life of crime commenced.

“It was… _kind_ of her to clean up Falcone’s son’s mess, but that is as far as we can go with gratitude. I am not touching her with ten foot pole, but feel free to do so yourselves.”

Reason number three; Dmitri “Mad Dog” Markovic.

With a temper as volatile as Sionis’ that consequently results in many outrageous, unorthodox acts on his behalf, it is no wonder many merely refer to the Russian as ‘Mad Dog’. Despite being raised in America, the semi-thick Russian accent that lathers the voices of his family members has still notably rubbed off on him. He adorns a sharp, short, dark haircut to match the severity of his tone and jawline, the common grey-blue hue of his irises just as uncompromising. The Markovics have never been ones to wield a crime family dependant on numbers. In fact, their numbers are the smallest of the now five crime families – still larger than any other gang or syndicate in the city bar the major rogues, but not nearly as vast as O’Reilly’s. What men and immoral criminals that _do_ form the crime syndicate however, are loyal and horrifyingly resolute to a fault, and are the most renowned and obstinate enforcers in the city. This, perhaps, is why Two Face made it his personal goal to also ally with Markovic the moment his career path turned over into a new leaf.

“You all rush to make decisions based on the momentary fear and instability roused by Sal’s premature demise. The criminal underworld is still feeling the ripple effects of it. To act now would be hasty and unwise... Harvey, you have been uncharacteristically reticent. There would be much appreciation for some shared thoughts.”

Reason number four; Carmine “The Roman” Falcone.

In Carmine Falcone, can Evangeline Winter find her strongest hope and most rebarbative concern. Don Falcone is not a young man at the staggering at of sixty nine – an age most in his line of work do not even have the fortuity to come near to – yet the accumulated experience and perception of the wise Italian makes him Eve’s most troublesome adversary, or probable associate. With dark trademark Italian hair slicked back perfectly and peppered with the signs of mature age, a suit more expensive than the other four’s put together, and the commonplace brown eyes that shift from that of a loving father to an unwavering business man and then a hardened, all-powerful criminal, Carmine Falcone adorns all the manifestations of his losses, wins, hardships and every unlawful experience in between like the most powerful mob man in the city should. Each gang and mafia syndicate – even the other big four – understand his place, a deep respect for him and his empire found within every single one of them – even Sionis. This is the man that could either make or break Evangeline Winter, or the city for that matter.

As is his habitual way, the half-mobster half-rogue twirls his chilling, iconic sign of certain death or life, the decisive coin, in between the callous fingers of his scarred hand. “I’ve been monitoring her for a little while now. She started poking around a few of my establishments, so I had a guy put on her. I had the pleasure of meeting her myself in the Iceberg Lounge three days ago.” He pauses thoughtfully, the coin hovering between the middle and ring finger before decisively continuing to twirl between them again once his speech picks up. “She’s smart. Too smart. She gave Nygma a run for his money. She always looks like she knows something you don’t, yet it’s not egotistically. She’s too... _nice_.”

And, of course, reason number five: Harvey “Two Face” Dent.

As is expected, Black Mask is the first to start an uproar at anything that happens to leave the other crime lord’s mouth. “And you only thought to mention this now?” Sionis spits, a venom and ire he preserves for Two Face and Two Face alone lathering his tone.

Harvey’s prudent gaze snaps into Harv’s blood curdling glower within a matter of milliseconds. “We were in the middle of a fucking mob war Sionis. I’m sorry; did you want me to swing on fucking by with a basket of cookies to tell you of some broad who seemed unimportant at the time whilst you blew up another one of my fucking docks?”

“Now, gentlemen, let’s keep a level head about us. Order amongst us is the only thing we have amidst times of chaos,” Carmine Falcone – ever the mediator – calms the two roguish crime lords in a tone that never rises above room level, a certain eerie yet smooth softness about the ageing man.

As always, out of the appropriately earned respect the older mafia Don has accumulated in his lifetime, the others begrudgingly back off from one another, expanding the distance between them until neither are close enough to each other to rip the other’s throat out like a savage dog. O’Reilly nearly childishly pouts at the Italian’s request as the heat between Sionis and Dent dwindles into warm coals, habitually rubbing the stubble on his jaw in disappointment. “Was just getting interesting.”

The brief sound of Dmitri Markovic smoothly cracking his neck resonates in the five men’s ears. “Regardless of when Harv planned on mentioning small woman or not, we have come here to make conclusion of what to do with her, yes?”

“Put a hit on her now and the media will start an uproar. Gotham city is enamoured with her at the moment. Killing her right now could just make things worse,” Colin O’Reilly solemnly sobers himself from his playful inebriation, mindlessly toying with the gleaming gold chain clinging to his neck, deep emerald dress shirt unbuttoned partway down his chest in a flashy display of his Simon Cowell worthy chest hair.

“You’ve met this woman before Harvey,” Falcone address the aforementioned man, a practiced slickness weaving into his natural movements. “What would your recommendation be?”

**_Give her a fucking medal for disposing of that punk Salvatore Maroni and pay her to off Sionis next,_** Harvey hears his cruder half instantaneously grumble in his head, not an ounce of hesitation evident within the execution of his suggestion.

_One, I highly suggest **against** voicing that strong proposition aloud, especially with said man at the table. And two, for someone who wanted her body in a body bag at the bottom of Gotham River three days ago, you’re in oddly high spirits about her._

**_This is Gotham fucking City Harvey. Everyone here can talk shit as good as the next guy, but few can live up to their promises. She took down an entire fucking crime family in the three days we gave her. Tell me of anyone in this city that can pull something like that off._ **

_Sounds like you’re ready to build a shrine for her._

**_Bite me Harvey._ **

_Don’t feel like receiving any diseases today Harv._

“Like I said, she’s nice. I can get to her through Nygma; he seems to have formed some kind of attachment with her. I think, if we approach this the right way, we can appeal to that niceness that seems to be imbedded inside of her and come to some sort of arrangement where she doesn’t disturb our businesses without having to kill or threaten her in the process. With a woman like this, it’s best to keep things clean.”

A wry, sophic smile tilts the corners of Don Falcone’s old lips up. As an old-fashioned mobster who prefers the approach of a business man before hoodlum, he has always respected Harvey Dent’s manner of rationalising over Harv, even in his previous life as a DA. It’s why he voted for him.

It takes little time after that for the five iconic crime syndicate heads to come to an agreeable conclusion they all feel, in the very least, content on. All find reason in Harvey’s thoughtful proposal, raising questions of probable faults in the plan, contingencies and the destination this should be held at. All find reason, bar Roman Sionis.

Sionis broods and scowls and gripes where he can, the very idea of acquiescing with a scheme devised by Harvey Dent rousing a repulsive taste to sit unwelcomingly in his mouth. Majority rules leaves him defeated, but only here and now at this very table.

If Markovic, Falcone, O’Reilly and Dent think that Black Mask is merely going to wait idly by and let this woman take over the city one crime syndicate at a time, then they are very very wrong.

***

“Alberto Falcone, _murdered_. Quite a predictable move on Don Falcone’s behalf, but disheartening nonetheless. That man has seen all the wars that tore this city apart throughout the age of the Gotham Rogues, having started his reign well before the Joker’s arrival. I suppose the experience has hardened him into the kind of man the Falcone crime family needs, but to murder your own _son_...” Evangeline Winter’s mindless mumbling breathes past her rosy lips as she slips her gold hoop earrings smoothly into place, staring aimlessly at herself in the mirror as her mind meanders completely on its own accord.

Eve enjoys dressing herself up as the next girl, but tonight isn’t a night of pleasantries and revelling in the company of true friends. Tonight will be a night of planned pleasantries, of cleverly thought answers and practiced phrases, and of conscientious treading amongst the various eggshells of politics and the media.

Tonight, is the Mayor’s Winter Gala.

A short notice for her – two days, to be exact – but after her triumph over one of the oldest and strongest crime families in Gotham two days ago, Mayor Marion Grange couldn’t pass the opportunity to invite the media’s new favourite subject to her annual gala. Eve has heard much about the woman; one of the better mayors of Gotham City, apparently. Not only did she appoint Jim the new police Commissioner the moment she became mayor, but during her campaign, she had Batman’s endorsement _himself_.

_Must be a promising lady._

The private investigator’s plus one is evidently Rebecca Daniels, despite Edward zealously endeavouring to talk Eve into taking him instead – needless to say, the conversation didn’t last long. Yet as the North Carolinian stands there, unblinkingly staring herself down in the mirror, an ominous, foreboding feeling of discomfort churns inside her like an undigested meal. _The crime families were quick to amend their associations with one another. No more shootings run the streets red with blood – not more than the average amount of shootings Gotham experiences anyway. Maroni is to undergo his trial in a week’s time with no hope of prevailing. Two Face has otherwise left me alone. All is well yet..._ To Eve, something is not right. _It’s too quiet._

With her blinding white, sleeveless formal gown that has it’s slit up the side of her left leg and lace above her chest until the halter neck, as well as her assortment of gold jewellery and heels she wore to the Iceberg Lounge, Eve pauses in her preparations to deliberate how long is socially acceptable to stay at gala before she can leave. Never one for large social gatherings, the detective scrutinises her natural styled make up as she ponders over whether she would prefer to face down Salvatore Maroni again instead.

Rebecca strolls in after not too long, skin tight, obsidian coloured formal maxi dress showing the same amount of skin through the leg slit as Eve’s does. With the aid of her one true confidant and friend, does Eve scurry to a ready and the two timely depart to the night ahead of them.

Arriving is rather like a red carpet ordeal – not that Bec or Eve would know how that feels – and the two North Carolinians are almost blinded by the numerous flashes of the cameras that attack their eyes like gunfire without the gun. Eve disregards the paparazzo’s hunger for ‘truth’, dodging questions, accusations and praises as efficiently as Batman dodges bullets. Arm linked tightly with Bec’s as if it’s a lifeline, the two women finally reach the entrance and allow the bustling staff to relinquish them of their coats and bags to be deposited in the cloak room before they eventually enter the overarching main room of the impossibly extravagant venue. The masses of the elite hauntingly remind Eve of the deplorable depths of the Iceberg Lounge, but, at least, at the Iceberg Lounge, the people wore their true intentions and faces unashamedly.

Here people adorn more masks than the Rogues Gallery. They wear tightly put on smiles and unpleasant pleasantries like a fit glove, their words speaking of one thing whilst their eyes another. For a tiring forty minutes after their arrival, Rebecca and Evangeline are almost repeating rehearsed lines and answers from the last introduction and conversation as rich family member after rich businessman after rich politician meet and greet the two, the Mayor being a momentary saving grace as she spoke of how she dreads events like this before being whisked off for her own greeting spree.

Checking her Michael Kors watch, Eve notes it has only just reached the one hour mark and is tempted to relinquish a sigh of contempt before reminding herself to be polite. _Be polite. Be kind. Be courteous. Be careful._

Having lost Rebecca to the masses (and wine) ten minutes ago, Eve elegantly relieves a passing waiter of a champagne flute before taking a tentative sip instead of downing the entire drink like she initially intended. _I could feign sickness. It’s not too unbelievable; accumulated stress and exhaustion from a trying task such as taking down the second largest crime family in Gotham is a good enough reason than any to result in an upcoming sickness._

“Miss Winter.”

_Here we go again. Smiles Eve._

With a patience that could rival an actual angel itself, Eve amiably turns to the source of the deep, baritone greeting to find the familiar yet not personally so face of Gotham’s favourite bachelor and billionaire. For the first time that night, an authentic smile graces the lips of Evangeline Winter. “Mr Wayne.”

A charming, Bruce Wayne grin that glistens brighter than Eve’s dress widens across his cheeks; a grin that would knock most women off their designer-heeled feet as he offers a hand to shake. “Bruce, please.”

Eve cordially shakes his hand in return, his skin slightly rougher than expected for a billionaire who spends a lot of time at home. “Only if you call me Eve. Miss Winter makes me feel old.”

Startlingly blue eyes make her feel immovable. “I wouldn’t worry much Eve; you don’t look a day over 20.”

A brief break in elegance arises when a graceless snort of amusement passes through her nose, the line cracking her smile wider. “How often does that line work Bruce?”

“More often than you would think. Most women don’t call me out on it.”

An energetic, wildly grinning head pops up around Bruce’s shoulder; the body attached stepping out from behind him not too long after as the two of them take their respective hands back. Shortly cropped yet still somehow untamed despite the minimal gel dark hair compliments the goofy grin of the young man, eyes equally as blue as his adoptive father yet filled with more life. “I was hoping you’d call him out on it, I’ve been trying to get him to stop using old, corny lines like that for years.”

“Shouldn’t take too much longer to grow out of it then,” Eve playfully consoles, outstretching her hand to the boy who couldn’t possibly be over twenty-two. “Eve, lovely to meet you. Timothy Drake I presume?”

“The one and only,” Tim elatedly confirms, accepting her hand but, much to Eve’s surprise, bringing it to his lips and gracing it with a brief kiss. “Big fan of your work.” The private investigator doesn’t miss the warning look out of the corner of her eye that billionaire gives his adoptive son; she _is_ a detective after all.

“Never had fans before two days ago,” Eve admits the peculiarity and uncertainty she feels from the number of admirers she has evidently met tonight, bashfully smiling as she receives her hand once more from Mr Drake. “I’m usually more discreet in my work.”

“For good reason I imagine,” Bruce assuages. “Gotham is a dangerous place to be well-known in.”

“I think what you did was brave. Not many people in this city are actually willing to stand up and protect others anymore these days. The criminals scare them too much,” Tim chimes in, his input momentarily turning more serious.

An unidentifiable glint glazes over the North Carolinian’s hazel orbs. “I don’t know; I think the Bat family is braver than I. After all, it’s Batman and Robin who brave the cold, harsh streets each night through rain, hail or snow fighting these criminals whilst I meander around my modest little abode.”

A slight bristle of pride, near undetectable to the human eye, puffs Tim’s chest out in _slightest_ way possible, and Eve has to repress the smile threatening to break out again. _Got you._

“Courage doesn’t necessarily mean the job gets done,” Bruce comments evenly before Tim is bestowed the chance to utter a comment of his own, Wayne’s sculpted, broad shoulder, arm and chest muscles stretching his suit slightly when his shoulders ease back into a straight posture. “You accomplished something that neither Batman nor any of his allies could accomplish in the many years of their time here in a matter of twenty one days. Allow yourself, in the very least, a moment to be proud. You deserve it.”

_He has **very** nice eyes_. Eve can’t help but feel astounded at how blue they are, and how every man with blue eyes she’s come into contact with so far has bore the same eye colour, yet they couldn’t be more different. _It’s a shame that they’re so guarded._

A small nod of the head and thankful beam from the private detective is exchanged with a brief crack of a real smile from a man with more secrecy surrounding him than the Batman – or, perhaps, the same amount of secrecy. “Thank you, both of you. Tell me though, do you—”

_BANG._

The roar of fire and debris cracks through the air like a thunderstorm is in the actual room, ripping apart the far right wall as waves of masked thugs pool in with enough firearms to supply a small company of soldiers. As if by instinct, Bruce Wayne’s hands gently yet firmly grip Eve and tug her into his chest as he spins to shield her and partially Tim from the rain of debris, but luckily for them, they’re fairly far into the room, resulting in mainly pebbles and disturbed dust sweeping over his suit.

Before the dust has even settled to a tolerable amount, does the easily identifiable, bone-chilling cackle of Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime hauntingly echo in the ears of every person in the room. “Sorry I’m late ladies and gents, I seemed to have lost my invitation in the mail! Not to mention Gotham traffic at this time of night is simply murderous. Mary, baby! What a party! Can’t officially kick it off without a bang though, can’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	12. Chaos vs Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how hard it is to get into the mindset/character of a raging psychopath - who isn't even a diagnosed psychopath in some interpretations of him, so that just f*cks my mind up more - that is the most unpredictable, craziest villain of them all??
> 
> Anywho, this is the best I could do. Hope you like!
> 
> Bonus points for anyone that gets any of the book/tv/movie/game references I slip into any of my chapters ever. Because they are in there. I swear.

_“Introduce a little anarchy. Upset the established order and everything becomes... chaos.”_ ~Joker

There are moments within Evangeline Winter’s lifetime, where she has had to deliberate if _that_ moment was the most frightened she has ever felt. She has had to reminisce old, daunting memories and compare the level of fear between them and the current moment to determine whether or not she has ever quite felt as scared as she did in that moment.

However, the moment she locked her eyes on the Joker, there was no hesitation in believing that _this_ is most certainly the most terrifying moment of her entire life yet.

As Shakespeare once said, _“Better to be a witty fool than a foolish wit,”_ something that whether the universally acclaimed writer appreciates it or not, is embodied by the Clown Prince of Crime himself. The Joker plays a fool – in case you couldn’t tell by iconic clown moniker – but it doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to realise how much of a _pure genius_ the Joker is. Unpredictability, schemes that the greatest minds in the GCPD fail to comprehend, twisted universal ideas and vulnerabilities of mankind and our nature found in each one of his crimes and ‘statements’. The people of this city merely think of him as crazy, and whilst he certainly _acts_ the part of an insane individual, Eve feels as if his supposed insanity is a large smoke screen to distract people from his subliminal messages of chaos and the particular ‘freedoms’ this anarchy entails.

Order is forged amidst harmful chaos, and chaos defects as a rebellion against suppressive order. From one another, they are born. A more perfect example of that outside the Dark Knight and the Joker could not be found.

The Joker truly does embody his moniker to its fullest extent. He takes symbolism and meaning of the fool, the clown, the jester, and the joker from every aspect of every belief and faith. Even in tarot cards, the ‘Fool’ is believed to be a very powerful card, representing a new beginning – and, consequently, an end to something in your old life. The Joker brings the end of order, starting a new life of chaos. He also, quite literally, _brings life to an end_ , and depending on whether you’re religious or not, a vast number of people believe that to be the beginning of your afterlife.

Never has there been a person so intricate and unpredictable in character and motives and beliefs as the Joker. Never has there been a person who not only defies the laws of the legal system in such a darkly eccentric manner, but also the laws of human nature and the human mind as the Joker does. Never has there been a person who shows all the signs of so many different classifications of insanity, yet when the time calls for it, can be as sane as any common man that you walk past on the streets.

Never has there been a person that not only terrifies Evangeline Winter to her very core, but remains an entire enigma to the astute detective.

She understands Batman’s play. She understands Riddler’s play. She understands Two Face’s play. She understands Scarecrow’s play. She understands the play of all the leading Don’s, as well as Jim Gordon and most cops in the GCPD precinct. She understands how these people think, how their minds individually operate, the very values and materialism they hold dear. All of this, she understands through the common grounding of human nature.

And yet, the Joker is the only one who she _cannot_ understand, because his absence of human nature defines him as something unhuman. Not a human, but also, as so many have called him, not a monster.

He is simply the Joker.

Watching him with a near religious fervour, Eve notes every breath, every step, every muscle movement, and every twitch of his lips almost unblinkingly. The way in which he indifferently and comically parades around the place, careless of everything yet caring for his own ideals at a clearly obsessive level. Most criminals care for understandable material goods or ambitions; power, money, revenge, enlightenment, and everything in between. Things that Eve can understand and play to her own advantage. Things that have structure. The Joker’s obsession with chaos may come as a form of enlightenment, but is entirely unstructured in a turmoil of anarchy.

Chaos is the one thing you cannot predict in this world. Even now, time and the future is becoming predictable with humanity’s vast and rapidly increasing understanding and development of technology, as well as the various metahumans, some of which can _bend_ time or play with it as they wish, one of these metahumans being the super hero the Flash. But chaos is unpredictability and disorder is its purest form, something that because it is unpredictable and unknown, strikes fear into the heart of humanity. It’s why so many value order over chaos.

In a way, Eve thinks herself to be of a middle ground. She values lawful order, but by establishing chaos amongst the criminals who value _unlawful_ order, she leaves them vulnerable so she can rationalise with them, to bring common sense to a society of people who in turn are generally orderly, yet thrive off the chaos of those at the other end of the legal and moral spectrum.

She almost overlooks the disappearance of Bruce Wayne from her side, so enraptured by the man she finds herself struck by and horrified by simultaneously. He laughs, a laugh that by comparing it to the laugh of a hyena before it devours it prey, would not do it any justice. “Quite the celebration you got going on here Mary.” He addresses Mayor Marion Grange in conversation, yet comes off as if he’s talking to the entire room in a display of melodrama. “Even ol’ Jimbo is here!”

Harleen Quinzel – infamous Harley Quinn and partner in crime to the Joker – seems to emit something that Eve thinks is supposed to be a squeal, but is almost high enough in pitch to shatter glass, and enwraps said Police Commissioner in a rather ditzy hug. Gordon looks more than put off by the act. “Hiya Jimmy! How’s the daughta?”

“Ah yes, how is the kid Jimbo? Still can’t stand being in a wheelchair?” That playful, dark, eccentric and threatening baritone that fluctuates in pitch – it seems even his voice pattern is constantly changeable – escalates into high shriek of a laugh, overpowering the shrilly laugh of his girlfriend as he does so. He’s quick to tone it down again, like that blood-curdling laugh could simply be switched on and off with the press of a button. “Ooh I’m sorry, still a sore spot? Hey, look at the bright side; at least it’s not sore from the waist down. _Ha!_ ”

Jim Gordon wears his well-composed anger stiffly, Harley having quite quickly returned to her ‘puddin’s’ side. “You can’t escape Joker; GCPD will have this place surrounded in minutes. Batman won’t let you get away either,” the aging Police Commissioner scowls in warning. _Ah yes, Jim, antagonise him with your virtues,_ Eve thinks to herself, wondering how after so many years dealing with the Joker, the Police Commissioner _still_ hasn’t learnt his lesson. _You know he thrives off of it, so why do it?_ She loves Jim, she truly does. What a good man, most likely the last good cop of his kind at this rate, but a little common sense here and there couldn’t hurt him.

That _laugh_. That _laugh_ that changes and conveys every mood that passes through the Joker at every second. Now it’s low, low and unnerving, like he knows something you don’t. It frustrates Eve to no end. However, it’s his girlfriend that gets the first word in, drilling out in that Brooklyn accent “B-man’s ruined one too many date nights! Mista J’s not lettin’ him get away with it this time, ain’t that right puddin’?”

 _Could it hurt the woman to use some proper grammar?_ Eve ponders, aghast at her vocabulary. She used to be a psychiatrist, but for the staff at Arkham to throw the Joker of all people at her as one of her first patients was foolish. He’s a Class A patient; not even the longest lasting, most experienced psychiatrists at Arkham could handle him. What made the Warden believe that a fresh out of college grad student could?

More laughing ensues. Laughing laughing laughing. It comes in small bursts, and dies away just as quickly. Eve’s beginning to see a pattern, noticing the manner in which is face and body will shift before he does so. In spite of being enraptured by the enigma that is the Joker, Eve instead elects to block out his grating dark humour and threats, peering around in an attempt to spot her foul-mouthed friend. _Knowing Bec, she won’t hesitate to even bad mouth the Joker should he head her way. **Really** don’t feel like attempting to barter with the Joker in hopes that he won’t kill her **and** probably me afterwards._

After a few moments of searching, Eve eventually spies her blonde companion a few meters from a hallway, a hallway currently occupied and guarded by two henchmen with more muscle than Eve thought humanly possible. _Well, at least the gyms in this city should be earning a generous profit. And they say that crime doesn’t pay._

She starts at a moderate pace at first, little steps behind people at a time, heading in the direction of the blonde psychiatrist, whilst keeping an eye on the Joker at all times. Should he begin drawing a blade or a gun or any kind of comically sadistic weapon on anyone at any time, Eve needs to be prepared to stall him until Batman arrives.

Unfortunately for the private detective, the need for a distraction comes a fair bit sooner than she would’ve preferred.

An elderly man with far too much bravado and fearlessness for a man that old in Gotham City should possess snaps at the Joker for something that Eve didn’t quite catch, too preoccupied making her way over to Rebecca Daniels. She has to stop her efforts over to her friend upon the Clown Prince of Crime darkly laughing whatever insult the man had uttered off, abruptly striking him across the face and proceeding to – .... _dance_ on the elderly man’s hurting body?

Any kind of pre-planned response or carefully thought out words that could potentially intrigue the Joker in a safer manner are throw to the wind, Eve barrelling out from the crowd of shaking onlookers and aristocrats in hopes to stop the infamous criminal from hurting that poor elderly man. “Dear God would you stop already? Your antagonising is pointless by this rate; everyone in this city is already terrified beyond reason of you.”

A pin could be dropped; it has fallen that silent in the room.

Every politician, every wealthy business man and woman, every reporter, every _guest_ of the Winter Gala are holding their breath like it will be their last, even the Mayor and Commissioner Gordon stare wide eyed at Evangeline Winter, like she couldn’t have possible done something more stupid than she just did. Gordon was already making his way over to the poor man when he was grabbed by two henchmen and struck in the gut, forcing him to kneel from the pain.

Rebecca looks ready to just about launch herself into the altercation, and most likely get into a cat fight with the Joker’s girlfriend, but one fleeting glimpse from Eve has her stopped in her tracks. _She always has a plan,_ the psychiatrist attempts to console herself, still wanting nothing more than to disregard her friend’s warning and jump in with her anyway. _If I interrupt, I could screw everything up. Fuck I hope she knows what she’s doing._

Evangeline Winter has _no idea_ what she’s doing.

“ _Hey_ ,” the Joker drags out in a low tone, a tone of faint recognition and familiarisation as he squints at the North Carolinian. “I know you... You’re the loony who tackled the mob!”

Eve can’t help but quirk an eyebrow at that, or the words that fall out of her mouth in response. “Loony? Has anyone ever informed you, Mr Joker sir, that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?”

A pause. A strangling, tense pause... and then, a laugh.

“Hahahaha!” The deranged clown cackles and giggles, and then sobers up quite quickly from his laughing, as per usual. “A funny one! I’ve been waiting for one with a sense of humour. It’s about time Jimbo and Batsy found a new playmate; Night-bat and Birdbrain were getting so _boorring_!” He starts skipping and waltzing and strolling over to the investigator amongst his little rant, pointing a knife – which Eve had failed to see him take out – at her to accentuate his point every so often. “ _Whooole_ criminal underworld is topsy-turvy because of you. And usually I’m the one causing chaos in this town. But you? _Ha!_ What a riot!”

A purple gloved hand suddenly shoots out; mercilessly seizing the chin of Evangeline Winter in a grip she couldn’t shirk herself from if she tried. The Clown Prince of Crime _yanks_ her face right into his, close enough that she can make out every age line in the cracks of his face paint, and every vile stain on the two seemingly infinite rows of his teeth. Foul breath permeates the air around her nose, scarring his sense of smell, whilst the mere sight of such a petrifying smile so _close_ to her is currently frightening off any common sense she could potentially scavenge in a moment like this.

Pure, unadulterated fear. That’s all she can feel right now. Not even the likes of Jonathan Crane, the Master of Fear himself could conjure the level of overwhelming, blinding fear Eve is presently enthralled by.

A sharp prick rests against her neck, somewhere over the purple glove and behind the petrifying painted face of the clown covering almost every aspect of her vision. _A knife, wonderful_.

“I like you toots. You’ve got spunk,” the Joker purrs, knowing exactly the kind of effect he has on her right now. “So I don’t really _want_ to kill you right now, not when you have the mob running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. But if you mess with _my_ affairs, if you come after _me_ , then all of Jimbo’s horses and all of Jimbo’s men will _never be able to put you back together again_. Comprende?”

Willing herself not to shake, she stares down the clown with what little steel she has left. “You find me threatening.” It’s a statement, an observation. Not a question.

The Joker dramatically groans, leaning back momentarily do to so, before yanking her face close to his again. “Cut me a _break_ here dollface. I’m a man! I have a fragile male ego that needs pampering on a regular basis, and finding a woman like _me_ doesn’t _pamper_ it, it _annoys_ it.”

The investigator stumbles at that. “Like you? How _exactly_ am I like you?”

“Why you’re an agent of chaos of course!” He exclaims, as if stating the obvious. “ _I_ like setting off chaos amongst Gotham’s finest officers and politicians and citizens and scum of the criminal underworld – I’m not discriminative like that. Chaos for all! But you? You enjoy letting chaos take the wheel amongst the bad, and _only_ the bad. And that’s bad for business toots, because that’s _my_ thing.”

“So I leave you to your devices, and you don’t mutilate and murder me in the most grotesque and colourful manner your mind can conjure up?” Eve shakily clarifies, hands still curled around the Joker’s hand gripping her chin and neck in hopes to eventually pry it off.

Eve is deprived of the Joker’s response, for as the clown began to open his mouth once more, an aggressive, feminie voice pierces the ears of every person – henchmen and aristocrats included – in the room.

“HEY! You cake-faced clown motherfucker! Hands off the private investigator! Ain’t no one wanna see that receding hairline and those chapped lips up _that_ close honey!”

Immediately, Eve almost let a curse slip. Almost. _Bec_.

Whatever the blonde psychiatrist had planned worked, for the purple glove holding her hostage instantly falls from the detective’s face, as well the knife pressed against her milky, smooth neck. His whole body snaps in the direction of Rebecca Daniels, like a shark that has had a taste of blood in the water.

She stands out of the crowd, similarly to how Eve burst from the throngs of fine jewellery and extravagant attire, with a glare that could put any man or woman six feet under if looks were capable of killing. It withers once it meets that of the Joker’s however, a sight that has stones churning in the stomach of the raven haired North Carolinian.

Harley Quinn, who has remained uncharacteristically silent throughout Eve’s exchange with the Joker, almost sees red at the very act of someone talking in such a manner to her _boyfriend_. “HEY! That’s MY puddin’ you’re talkin’ ‘bout lady! Lay off!”

Bec’s tanned arms cross one over the other, somewhat more courageous facing the ex-psychiatrist than the Clown Prince of Crime. “Sorry – not really – but I just needed a distraction.”

Eve frowns. _A distraction—?_

A black cape floods her vision, a sign of both hope and terror in the city – depending on where you’re standing. Unfortunately for her, Joker just narrowly avoided Batman’s immediate grasp and distanced himself from the fearless, imposing vigilante, his mood sky-rocketing several miles. “Batsy! Baby! Was wondering when you’d turn up to the party. Bit late, aren’t you? Did your invite get lost in the mail too—?”

“That’s enough Joker.” Demanding, gravelly, levelled, as always. Low, and yet it carries across the whole room. Red moves in the corner of Eve’s eye. _Robin is here as well is seems_.

Once again, Eve almost entirely blocks out the Joker, Harley and Batman interact with one another, more focused on her best friend still standing out in the open, currently behind Robin. _‘Are you okay?’_ she mouths to Rebecca, fear still ringing in her bones from the very thought of Bec antagonising the Joker.

Bec shrugs, a shaky but reassuring smile tugging at her lips. _‘Been better,’_ she mouths back.

The abrupt movement of the wall of black standing in front of her jolts Eve from her silent conversation with Rebecca, as Batman and Robin launch themselves at the henchmen between them and the infamous clowns. Eve uses this chance to sprint towards her friend, despite the heels. The other guests of the room seem to also take this as their cue, cries of fear and clicks and clacks of expensive shoes meeting the marble flooring erupting as they form a chaotic sea of helpless men and women in their fleeing.

It takes no small amount of effort to weave her way through the onslaught of panicked civilians desperately sprinting for the exit, but her hand finds Bec’s soon enough, the two of them relieved to finally be in each other’s reach. “What the hell were you thinking Ange?” The blonde immediately chastises her, raising her voice over the grunts of the fight and screams of terror.

Eve stares at her friend amused but also incredulous. “The entire proverb of ‘those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’ wasn’t limited to the Joker when I spoke it Bec. You just called the Joker a ‘cake-faced clown mother’ and criticized him on his ‘receding hairline and chapped lips’. In the very least, _I_ didn’t insult the certifiably insane super criminal right to his face.”

“Technically I did it behind his back,” she corrects the detective, the both of them deprived the chance to further converse and scold one another by none other than James Gordon.

Amongst the anarchy, his course hands reach out and grip the shoulders of the two women, seizing their attention. “That was reckless, from the both of you.”

“ _We’re_ reckless, Commissioner. She’s just reckless in a more elegant and refined way. It’s what you got when you hired her,” Bec explains, jutting her head at Eve with a wry smile.

Gordon shakes his head, knowing that this isn’t the place or time to hold this conversation, and even then, the likelihood of him winning is very slim. “Come on,” he gruffly presses, guiding them out like the rest of the panicked civilians.

If it was chaotic inside, then it’s pure Armageddon outside. Officers, reporters, terror-stricken civilians, medics. All in a flurry to regain control. Bec and Eve are handed over to separate officers and medics for their accounts of tonight’s events, as well to check them over for injuries.

A small bandaid lies over the light cut made by the Joker on Evangeline’s neck as she sits on the edge of the ambulance’s back entrance, a blanket gently draped over her shoulders with her eyes fluttered shut. Leisurely breathing in and out, the North Carolinian attempts to bring order to her own mental and emotional state, tasking herself with focusing on the individual sounds the light wind carries over to her in the dark of the night.

The fact that she could’ve and should’ve been murdered just then is _very_ real. More real than when she faced Sal Maroni. At least then she had a plan, she was a few steps ahead of the mob boss. This? This was all spontaneous, all in the moment. Nothing pre-planned. _And_ with an unpredictable factor thrown into the midst (said factor none other than the Joker). The sudden realisation that Gotham City _really_ isn’t like any other city finally seems to hit her like a cargo truck.

Metropolis, Central City, National City. Cities that Eve has visited before in her travels, cities with heroes and villains, just like Gotham city. But they’re not like Gotham City, aren’t they? Aliens and metahumans for criminals and villains, grasping for tangible, materialistic, predictable goals. It’s easy to place blame and believe you understand the means behind those that aren’t normal, those who were born with or are given special abilities that make them super and dangerous. But people? Plain, old, everyday people from the masses of our own species, with nothing out of the ordinary except for a deranged mind? Those are the kind of people that make up a good majority of Gotham’s Rogue’s Gallery.

Scarecrow. Riddler. Two Face. The Joker. Harley Quinn. Victor Zsasz. Penguin. Mad Hatter. Black Mask. Deadshot. Deathstroke. Firefly. Catwoman. Falcone. Maroni. Markovic. O’Reilly. So many of Gotham’s biggest and baddest are just _human_. Of course you have your selection of metahumans; Poison Ivy, Solomon Grundy, Killer Croc, Clayface, Mr Freeze and so on. But almost every villain that Batman has encountered on the streets of this city hasn’t relied on henchmen or powers or gadgets alone. All of these people, in one way or another, are just smart. Smart and dangerous and mentally unstable. Those three are _not_ a good mix.

 _I need to start thinking about tackling this from a different angle,_ Eve ponders tiredly to herself, eyes still gently closed amongst the many sounds of sirens, wails and demands of scurrying officers. _If I’m really considering going further with this, I need to be prepared for more than just the mob. The mob I understand, but it’s the super criminals who run this city. I still refuse to treat them any less than the humans they are, but I have to be smart enough to know how each one of them thinks. This will certainly prove to be interesting._

“Miss Winter.”

A small smile weakly graces Eve’s lips, and she allows her eyes to flutter open only to find the source of the familiar baritone standing no more than a couple feet from her. “I do believe I told you to call me Eve.”

The Dark Knight disregards her correction, immovably staring her down with that pinning, strong gaze of his. “What you did was reckless tonight.”

By this stage Evangeline is too tired, both physically and mentally, to put much effort into retaining propriety and elegance. She shrugs. “I took a chance. You were late.”

“Traffic.”

“Cute, and here I thought I escaped the Joker.”

“Eve.”

“What’s with the interrogation? I’m in shock, look, I’ve got a blanket.” She flaps the small blanket around her shoulders to accentuate her point, in spite of the disapproving stare sent her way from the dark clad vigilante.

“I’m serious.”

“Aren’t you always?”

His stare turns more severe at that, and he crosses those last couple feet between them imposingly, prompting another exhausted sigh on Eve’s behalf. “I apologise,” she amends, before he opens his mouth again. “The whole night has me in a state right now. Point is, I wasn’t in good faith about to let the Joker murder a poor man who made the mistake of speaking up. Not whilst I was standing there. Would you just stand there and let someone be murdered or hurt like that?”

The Batman’s rich blue eyes narrow in on the detective. Not accusatory, but something else. “I know how to handle the Joker. I’m capable of physically taking him and his men on. You aren’t.”

“That doesn’t change the way I feel about letting innocents die,” Eve defensively responds. “I knew you were coming. I’m capable of verbally sparring with a criminal for a few minutes in the least. Do you still underestimate me, even after everything with Maroni?”

“No,” he immediately answers, blocking out everything behind him. In that moment, the Dark Knight is the only thing Eve can hear and see. “You overestimate your own capabilities with people like the Joker. You’ve proven proficient and adept you are with normal criminals; I trust you with that. But the Joker, Two Face and Riddler are a whole new level. You’re not ready for them.” _How could he possibly know about my encounters with Harvey and Edward?_

Eve masks her face to hide her surprise at his last two sentences. “How do you know about that?”

“I just know.” _Enigmatic and vague, as always._

“Edward and I are on friendly terms. Well, as friendly as a super criminal can be.” She knows she’s treading on _very_ thin ice with this subject, and has to evaluate and select her words carefully enough so she doesn’t incriminate herself. “He finds me entertaining because I’ve preceded his expectations. Whenever I bump into him – be it at the Iceberg Lounge or elsewhere – he has so far been my inside man. I’ve obtained a lot of information from him or because of him, all of which has so far been accurate and sometimes pricelessly helpful. I’m not an idiot, I’m well aware he’ll toss me to the metaphorical wolves the moment he sees himself in any danger, but for the time being I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

The Dark Knight’s face hardens ever so slightly. “You might be lenient with certain crimes and criminals because of your own brother’s reputation, but I’m not.”

Her jaw tightens at that one. _Low blow_. “That was below the belt.”

Eve can tell that he really doesn’t care how below the belt it was, so long as it got his message across. “It was meant to be.”

“Rather hypocritical of you,” she evenly defends as she crosses her arms, trying not to allow the sting of his previous comment to get to her too much. “Considering how I’ve been informed of the kind of relationship you hold with Gotham’s most infamous thief. Jim’s not stupid; he merely turns a blind eye to _you_ turning a blind eye to a few of Catwoman’s burglaries, all because she feeds you information every so often. It’s the same with Edward and I.”

“It’s not the same,” he firmly objects, yet doesn’t rise to the bait. “Selina Kyle isn’t known for murdering innocent civilians in elaborate, impossible to win death puzzles. Nygma is.”

“I’m not justifying what he has done,” Eve gently explains, holding back a yawn that has been brewing in the back of her throat since she had finally sat down. “Nothing Edward can do to help me will ever justify or make up for what he has done, and under no circumstances have or will I ever advocate or encourage _any_ of his crimes. I know any inquiries of mine won’t go without a price here on out, which is why I’m treading very carefully around him, but even you can’t argue that the information he fed me for the Maroni case was useless or corrupt.”

The Dark Knight stares down at the petite raven haired woman sitting on the edge of the ambulance with the small blanket draped around her shoulders. He speculatively eyes the dark circles under her curious yet tired hazel eyes, fully aware that she won’t be awake much longer at the rate she’s going. Batman knows he can deal with Nygma on a later date, but for now, the private investigator before him is in dire need of some sleep. Confrontations with the Joker are always taxing; no matter how many times one may encounter him.

“Go home. It’s been a long night,” he commands, waiting for some kind of disagreement from the investigator.

As predicted, Eve meekly shakes her head, rubbing a tired eye. “Jim might need some help with—”

“Eve. Go home.” He steps closer, blocking absolutely everything else entirely now. “You and your friend need rest more than anything. Stay away from the rogues.” With a flutter of his dark cape, the North Carolinian is suddenly met with the back of the vigilante, watching him turn and walk in the direction of Jim a few cars over.

Gawking for a moment from the fatigue slowing her brain, she quickly pieces together a few words to form an appropriate sentence. “Thank you, by the way.” He pauses where he stands; lending Eve the impression he can hear her. “I didn’t thank you before. That was rude of me. I don’t take you saving my life – or Bec’s life – for granted or lightly. So, thank you. Please convey my gratitude to Robin as well.”

She almost believes that he’ll just nod and walk off, like he usually does, but when he responds – back still to her – she begins to wonder if the fatigue is really conjuring up auditory hallucinations for her. “You’re welcome.”

And like that, like always, the Dark Knight leaves Evangeline Winter alone without another sound.

***

“I’m gonna need a week of sleep after that fiasco,” Bec inelegantly stumbles down the hallway leading to Eve’s apartment, heels in hand and occasionally bumping into her friend whilst she’s at it. “Maybe a month. Still want to apply for a spot in Arkham though, now more than ever.”

“So long as your employers refrain from assigning you Miss Quinn or the Joker,” Eve agrees with an exhausted yet humoured smile. “I don’t believe either will forget your memorable speech for quite some time.”

Bec snorts as Eve searches for her keys, but both women pause when they notice the door already a couple centimetres ajar. The blonde is the first to react, rolling her eyes and quietly groaning. “If it’s that pompous puzzle prick again I’m gonna shove that golden cane of his right up his ass—”

“Edward’s not this messy,” the detective lowly disaffirms, soft hands gingerly pushing the wooden door open as slowly as possible and peeking inside to the very _last_ thing she would expect tonight.

Edward Nygma is currently in her apartment, but he’s not alone. The criminal is surrounded by three hostile wolves; his green shoes dangle helplessly a few feet in the air with the rest of his body, held up by the lapels of his immaculate suit by none other than Nathaniel Winter. Her brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	13. Real Gotham City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of part one! But instead of creating a series, I'm just making it one long book. Really can't be bothered making individual books for the individual parts. 
> 
> Hope you have all enjoyed it so far! I would hope so if you've lasted this long. After this chapter (and the next tbh) you'll be getting a lot more romance and action though. The real juicy bits start to kick in as of now.

_“Beware of him that is slow to anger; for when it is long coming, it is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept. Abused patience turns to fury.”_ ~ Francis Quarles

Evangeline Winter likes to think that, in comparison to not only the average Gothamite, but the average every day person, she possess an almost far too tolerant amount of patience for people who most would agree don’t deserve it. Then again, most would also agree that any degree of patience and kindness is far too generous for any of Gotham City’s deplorable criminals and corrupt transgressors. And yet, the Gotham community’s shared perspective and social commentary on each of the city’s most notorious criminals has yet to sway her own opinion on them, as well as her capacity of patience in regards to how long she can tolerate their arrogance, intimidation, coarse behaviour and overall threats of promising violence and potential death.

Even in everyday activities that the normal civilian would partake in, Eve has no small amount of patience. Rude people standing before her in the coffee store line, incessant ramblings when she desires nothing other than silence or sleep, clientele moving deadlines forward or being overall difficult customers, her landlord making crude and lewd remarks whenever she has the displeasure to run into him on her way to her apartment. Eve keeps a smile plastered. A patient smile. She has a saying about it, actually. _‘Kill them with kindness and bury them with a smile’_. After all, to antagonise or snap at someone has never been the kind of person she is.

However, tonight is proving to be more than challenging.

Perhaps it’s all the fatigue and stress and reality of the averted mob war finally slamming into her like a bus. Perhaps it’s the Dark Knight’s continuous treatment of her like she’s a child who needs constant protecting or chastising. Perhaps its Edward’s ceaseless breaking into her apartment and meddling in her affairs. Perhaps it’s the certainty of unwanted criminal attention being turned in her direction that’s bundling her stress into a tightly knit ball in her chest. Perhaps it was her very likely near-death experience tonight at the hands of a clown who terrifies her more than anything else does in this world. Perhaps it’s the reminder of seeing her elder brother and remembering the kind of mess he tends to leave in his less than legal wake. Or, perhaps, in all likelihood, it is all of the above.

But Evangeline Winter’s patience has officially met an all time low.

Standing rigidly straight as Bec snickers besides her at the sight, the private investigator refrains from uttering a single word, knowing if she does so in the next ten seconds whilst she regains the remnants of her patience, she will likely regret it in the seconds following. Instead, she keeps her rosy lips thinned, allowing one of the other three people in the room to shatter the impending, fragile silence. Eventually, it is Rebecca Daniels who does it for her.

“Wait! J-Just keep him there for a sec Nate, this is fucking priceless,” the blonde wheezes out between laughs, rummaging haphazardly through her purse for her phone to take a photo.

The infamous Prince of Puzzles is less than amused by the blonde’s thorough entertainment. “If this bumbling buffoon doesn’t put me down in the next five seconds, I won’t hesitate to throw him in my next death trap.”

As if they understood the Riddler’s words, the three larger than your average sized black wolves began to menacingly growl from the depths of their throats, fur hitching up as their less than subtle show of bared teeth wink at the rogue in the silvers of moonlight pooling from the windows. The old saying ‘Dogs look like their owners’ is exemplified through the three canines and their respective owner, even before Nathaniel’s incident.

At an intimidating height of 6’5 feet and weighing in at 230 pounds (104kg) of pure muscle, Nathaniel Winter is quite the daunting sight to behold. Hair as pitch black as Eve’s is cropped short and dishevelled, paired with fair few days old dark stubble. What warm, mid-olive skin that is on display from the base of his neck upwards is mildly calloused with a couple little white scars, only telling just how much more must lie underneath. Unblinking, hard brown eyes are still immovably focused on the criminal he’s presently holding in the air by his black reinforced tri-polymer gloves lined with a polymer Kevlar weave, curled aggressively around the green lapels of Nygma’s blazer.

His whole black suit is made of the material, rendering him resistant to extreme temperatures and impervious to bullets, blades, chemicals, abrasions and more scars – for the most part. A long, dark trench coat with the collar always cocked up remains 30cm away from dusting the floor. Form fitting, but not too tight Kevlar pants. Torso armour – remarkably similar to Batman’s, now that Eve thinks about it – that ends at his collar bone. Sturdy, cumbersome combat boots. And to polish the look, a rather out of place, plain, silver cross necklace, identical to Eve’s, hangs comfortably around his neck.

For Edward Nygma, a man renowned for his vast intellect, to vex Eve’s brother, a man of a very similar build to the vigilante who brutally pummels the criminal to a pulp on a regular basis, was not very smart.

Evangeline can hear the small _clicks_ of Bec’s phone taking several photos, her snickering not stopping any time soon. Exhaustedly sighing, the raven haired woman cranes her neck up to look at the ceiling, allowing her hazel eyes to flutter shut as she evenly addresses the men in the room. “Nate, meet Edward. Edward, meet my elder brother, Nathaniel Winter.”

Edward, not for the first time in the presence of Evangeline Winter, finds himself stunned by the information revealed in the introduction. “Your brother is the _Black Dog?_ ”

The private investigator’s eyes remain closed, still attempting to compose herself when she tightly answers “Yes. He is.”

Eve and Nate have always gotten along swimmingly, despite their starkly different personalities. Eve is patient, gentle, sympathetic, and possesses a welcoming and warm bearing about her. Whereas Nate is rather silent, reserved, closed off, and wears an intimidating air about him that prompts unease from anyone within his presence, even if he isn’t talking or staring at them. He never utters a word above room level, voice always soft, never yells. That gentle threatening baritone that paints the picture of a man with control over not only his emotions, but over the power in the room. However, the largest dissimilarity between them would have to be their choice in occupation.

Evangeline Winter became a private investigator to help people; to use her gift of intelligence and astute observation for the better. Nathaniel Winter became a mercenary with the aid of his three wolves because people, aside from his younger sister, had treated him ill his whole life, the incident where he was gifted his special abilities proof of that, and decided to take matters into his own hands. If Batman was more reserved, quiet, in control of his rage and anger, and was capable of murdering those who some of society would deem fitted for death, then he could very well be Nathaniel Eli Winter.

Nate lazily casts his intense stare to his younger sister, noting her discomfort and exhaustion. Her tense frame betrays her present inner turmoil and ire simmering beneath the surface. “Friend?” He asks. Laconic. Controlled. Soft. Low. How the large mercenary often speaks. He stares at Eve expectantly for an answer.

“Somewhat, yes,” Eve answers after a beat, a small smile tugging at her lips when a wet tongue tickles her right hand’s fingers. Glancing down, she spies the blind wolf of the trio, Luna, licking happily away at her finger tips. Tenderly petting the head of the female wolf, a sliver of relief and peace is momentarily restored within the raven haired woman, until she’s required to turn her attention back upon the two men in the room. “Please put him down.”

Reluctantly, the large gloved fingers of Nathaniel Winter release the Prince of Puzzles from where he dangles in the air, Edward briefly and inelegantly stumbling in his attempts to regain his footing. Glaring daggers at the much larger man, the Riddler straightens out his emerald blazer, fairly irritated. Returning his consideration back towards the private investigator, his lips form a sharp, tight line. “You had failed to mention your elder brother is a widely notorious thug with a pension for brutality.”

“It had failed to come up,” Eve replies, shirking her iconic white coat from her shoulders and hanging it on the coat rack. “Nor am I entitled to inform you everything about me, Edward. I enjoy your company, yes, for you offer intelligent companionship, but we haven’t known one another _that_ long. Perhaps once you feel comfortable sharing personal information of your own, then I shall do the same.”

Edward’s laughter is dry and biting. “That would require a certain level of trust my dear, trust that I don’t give out carelessly to anyone in this city.”

“Neither do I. But you have proven yourself thus far, so don’t ruin that.”

Nathaniel observes the exchange with a critical eye. The mercenary is more than aware of his sister’s disagreement with the criminal lifestyle, having quite openly voiced her opinions on the matter to him on more than once occasion. She loves him nonetheless, for they are family, and have always been there for one another when their parents and friends were otherwise absent, but for her to strike a friendship with a highly precarious, infamous criminal that she holds no apparent connection to, is startling – and worrying – to say the least.

This is what Gotham City does to people. Nate has been here on more than one occasion, familiar with the deplorable crime and formidable vigilante within. This city is a taint; bad poison that lingers and festers within the open wounds of society’s vulnerable individuals. He gets more than enough work here, but always feels more infected and contaminated when he leaves. He doesn’t want that for his little sister; a woman so humane and with such a pure of soul. Nate isn’t blind enough to ignore that new, raw strength and vigour in the depths of her gaze though. Her spirit is flourishing in this city, he can discern how revitalised she is here. For a city that takes life on a regular basis, it seems to have given his sister more than she has ever had.

“However, I’m certain you came for a reason, Edward, as you always do.” Manicured fingers that belong to Eve release their grasp on her purse, resting it on the kitchen counter as she rummages around for some leftover dinner scraps for the three wolves; Lucifer, Luna and Black. “How may I be of assistance? So long as it’s legal and not morally corrupt, of course.”

“Actually, I’m not here on behalf of myself,” the green glad villain admits, twirling his golden cane habitually as he advances towards the kitchen, closely shadowed by Nathaniel and his three wolves. “I come bearing an invitation from our mutual associate; Harvey Dent.”

Rebecca, electing this moment to speak up, takes advantage of Eve’s brief stunned silence to scowl at Nygma and position herself between her friend and the crook. “Nup. Nuh uh. Nope. _No_. No more criminal gatherings, no more grade A Gotham rogues, no more mob or notorious criminal dealings and cases. Angie did her part; Dent said he’d lay off. So tell him to _lay off_.”

“Bec, it’s fine,” Eve attempts to console her best friend, more intrigued than ever at this ‘invitation’. Scrutinising Edward, the detective first mulls over the possibilities of intent behind it. _Harvey Dent is a busy man, he wouldn’t coordinate a meeting with me personally just to congratulate me or inform me of his decision to leave me be for fulfilling my end of the bargain – if he **does** plan on leaving me be. Organising a meeting would suggest that he doesn’t, however, so that scratches that off the list._ Noting Edward’s now eased posture, Eve tilts her head analytically. _Edward is enjoying deciphering my enigmatic mind and thought process, so if he – a man with no small amount of astute intellect – believed me to be in danger from Harvey Dent in this meeting, then he most likely would have declined Two Face’s request to pass on the invitation. Not only that, but Edward doesn’t pride himself on being a messenger, meaning that this has to possess some kind of importance on a larger scale for him to even agree to informing me._

_With the help of the GCPD and FBI, I just brought down the Maroni Empire, an empire than has been around in Gotham for at least four or five generations, and was the second strongest crime family in this city. Most criminals would feel threatened by this, including and especially the other crime families. If this is a unanimous plan devised by the other crime families, then it would make sense to use Dent’s name as the coordinator of the meeting, considering how out of all of them, he is the only one I am familiar with. Familiarity, however. Why use familiarity? Familiarity is used as a means of comfort – even if they are large criminals – so they wish for me to be at least mildly at ease with this meeting. The only time a mafia man wants someone else to be at ease – someone they **invite** to a meeting, offering the choice of attending or not, instead of kidnapping or forcing – is when they wish to proposition them with a business deal. A business deal... with me? Makes sense I suppose. They probably desire their ‘businesses’ to be unbothered by me after the little stunt I just pulled._

“The crime families,” Eve voices her speculations, feeding the wolves the leftover meatballs from last night’s spaghetti. “They wish to offer me a deal to stay away from their businesses and are using Dent as the coordinator because I have met him before, yes?”

The Riddler chuckles lightly, a disbelieving yet impressed sound. “You did it again. _How_ do you keep doing this? And proceed to get it correct _every_ time?”

“Keep it up Ange, and he might just build you a shrine,” Bec sarcastically comments, still positioned between the two, along with the three feeding wolves.

Edward’s eyes sharply cut across to Rebecca, piercing in intensity. “Remind me why you keep the crude, brazen, ostentatious psychiatrist around. If you wanted a companion with the same level of intellect to keep you company, you could have just adopted a cat. At least they’re quieter.”

Bec snorts inelegantly, a wry smirk curling at her lips. “At least I was _invited_ instead of consistently breaking in. That desperate for a friend, Nygma?”

“Will you two play nice for _one_ minute?” Eve exasperates, exhaustion gnawing at her bones and patience wearing thinner than strand of hair.

Nathaniel, detecting his younger sister’s evident displeasure and debilitation, feels his jaw tighten considerably. When he speaks, his tone is hushed, but with a foreboding firmness in power that manages to silence the bickering felon and psychiatrist. “ _Quiet_.”

Every light in the apartment dims in and out ominously when Nate utters his command, the wolves menacingly growling from the depths of their guts again along with it, prompting a disgruntled yet guilty expression from Bec and a firm brow furrow from Nygma. Eve merely sighs, running a haggard hand over her face. “Thank you, Nate,” she acknowledges her brother tenderly before returning her focus to the pressing affair at hand. “When and where does Mr Dent wish to see me, Edward?”

The Prince of Puzzles pauses before responding, still casting his wary, unsure gaze around the apartment as a result of the faltering lights. “As luck would have it, tonight, midnight, at the Iceberg Lounge. They wish this entire affair to be taken care of as promptly as possible, unaware that you were attending the Mayor’s Winter Gala, nor did they predict that you would experience an evening as taxing as yours has been as a result of the _obviously_ planned gatecrashing of the Joker. They wouldn’t be thrilled if you moved it to tomorrow evening, but would understand nonetheless—”

Checking her white and gold Michael Kors watch, Eve notes the time to be 10:48pm. “I would rather be done with everything tonight,” she tiredly admits, intervening Edward and remaining mildly ticked at the entire situation. “May you please inform Mr Dent that I will be attending? I only need to change clothes, and then I will make a start to the Iceberg Lounge. I’d rather not keep them waiting, and prefer to arrive earlier if it means this matter will be done earlier. I _would_ like some sleep tonight.”

“You don’t have to go to this Angie – it’s obviously a fucking trap,” Bec turns to warn her; at the same time that Nathaniel speaks himself.

“I’m accompanying you.”

Eve shakes her head at the both of them, not wanting this to evolve into an argument, not tonight. “No, please, I must—”

“My little sister is about to enter the heaviest criminally populated business in Gotham, to make a deal with Gotham’s top crime bosses.” Everything that tumbles from Nate’s mouth is said in a matter of fact tone, impassive expression unwavering in intensity. “ _I am accompanying you_.”

Eve is irrefutably acquainted with that voice and look. There is no room for discussion. There is only acquiescence. “Very well, but the wolves remain here,” the private investigator caves, stating her one condition. “I am attending as a sign of peace. Three large predators do not convey a very peaceful message.”

The responding nod is stiff but confirming. Sighing in deep exasperation, Eve ventures down the hall towards her room to change. She has half an hour to shower and change before she needs to head out the door.

“Stay here, leave, I don’t care,” is what she casts over her shoulder as she walks away, directed at the three people standing around her living room and kitchen. Grumbling, she begins to mutter to herself. “I am just about _done_ with tonight.”

***

Nathaniel Winter stays clear out of his sister’s way. She may be attending as a sign of peace, but tonight, his little sister is vehemently on a war path, and Nate pities whoever will end up at the brunt end of it.

Walking behind her is like following a storm. A short, not very menacing and yet still threatening storm. Her white coat has been thrown back on atop a bright yellow blouse and black suit pants. The connotations of the bright colour – happiness, sunshine, positivity, joy – do not match the private investigator’s present disposition.

Eyes snap to the pair the moment they enter the Iceberg Lounge. The whole establishment may not be paying attention, but with the abrupt, softer lull in chatter and sound the second they enter their feet set foot in the room, it certainly feels like it.

Eve doesn’t bat an eye. She allows the men that walk up to her to guide her silently through the club, staring straight ahead with a calm face. That is worse, Nate decides. The calm kind of anger. The calm kind of impatience. He would know, he employs it often himself.

Upon arriving at the end of a long, dimly lit hall with two men stationed outside the door, cries of objection begin to tumble from the hired help’s mouths.

“Na ah, boss said nuthin’ ‘bout bringin’ anyone else wit’cha,” one man says, heated glare wavering in uncertainty when he meets the stare of Eve’s elder brother. “Beat it, man.”

“I am about to enter a room with some of this City’s most dangerous members of the criminal underworld entirely defenceless,” Eve gently informs him, railing in her sharp tongue. “I would ask you to please allow me the satisfaction to not do so alone.”

Whilst not pleased, the two large men grumble in acquiescence, the man on the right opening the door stiffly and permitting the siblings entry. Eve’s watch chimes once in celebration of the hour. 12:00.

It’s hard to miss, evidently done on purpose. Only one main light is illuminated, ominously strung above the large table which four men sit at, almost reminding Eve of a noose. The rest of the room is otherwise too dark for Eve to see, but her brother can see _everything_.

A back bar room under renovation; tarps are haphazardly splayed over lounges and counters and pool tables. More men stand in the darkness, as if waiting to be called forth. _Those_ men are Nate’s main focus, whilst Eve’s main focus is currently sat half the room away in the light.

Step by step, Eve takes her time approaching the table.

_Click._

_Clack._

_Click._

_Clack_.

Her high heeled ankle boots meeting the floor with each step is the only sound to be heard, thrumming in her ears in anticipation and a pinch of dread. She had a generous amount to drink before coming here, something she is now whole heartedly grateful for Bec for pushing her into doing. A little liquid courage can go a long away, sometimes. Hopefully, however, not _too_ long.

Nathaniel is utterly silent in his own steps, hardly even disturbing the dust gathered on the floor. By the time Eve finally reaches the table, all four men are staring fixedly up at her.

Dmitri Markovic. Colin O’Reilly. Carmine Falcone. Two Face.

_No Black Mask._

“Miss Winter,” the Don of all Dons, the Capo di tutti capi, Don Carmine Falcone himself greets the private investigator. A pleasant, well-mannered smile sits contently at his lips, the kind that isn’t too forced nor too wide, but subtle and gentle enough to offer some sense of comfort towards who it is directed at. It is a business smile that has been perfected over many long years to appear as a friendly smile.

_He will undoubtedly be the leading man tonight,_ Eve mulls over silently. Gently smiling in return, a smile that Eve – unlike Falcone – has not had to practice to perfect over the years, but was fortunate enough to be born with, Eve nods her head in greeting to the older mafia boss. Even when she’s exhausted and irate, Eve can force out a smile. “An absolute pleasure, Don Falcone.”

His grin broadens, a small chuckle dancing past his lips. “Please, my dear, my friends call me Carmine.”

Curiosity twinkles amidst her veiled disbelief. “And I am to be your friend?”

 “I enjoy having friends who hold honour, loyalty, honesty and conviction in what they do. Such intelligence and grace is merely a beneficial side trait,” he charms, in the manner an old, friendly business man would.

The private investigator’s head tilts a fraction to the right in mellow contemplation. _Your current company would suggest otherwise._ “Honourable attributes, perhaps too honourable to term me with just yet – we did just meet. Flattered either way, however.”

“I have a good eye kid,” the old boss informs, chin titled up as he surveys the woman.

“As do I.” She meets his gaze, resolute and unwavering.

After a pause, in which neither party backs down, a tinge of warmth seems to flitter behind his all-knowing brown eyes. “I don’t believe you have had the pleasure of meeting my other associates.” His hand airily gestures towards the man on his right; a stern, fierce looking gentleman with an impeccable navy suit, dark rusty brown hair cropped short, a bit of clean cut scruff adorning his jaw and hollowing pale grey-blue eyes. “Don Dmitri Markovic, of the Bratva. Russian crime family.”

Don Makovic nods his head stiffly, scanning the private investigator up and down once like a hawk, nothing given away in his expression. “Miss Winter.”

_“Rad vstretit' tebya,”_ Eve replies, nodding her head in return. **_(Nice to meet you)_**

One red-brown eyebrow arches in disbelief on the Russian’s face. “You speak Russian?”

“That’s the extent of it, I’m afraid,” she answers bashfully, tender enough in tone in some attempt to put the Russian at ease. “I spent a month in Russia for a case. Nothing as exciting as what I’ve been doing in Gotham, but the country certainly made the experience.”

Although his face remains stoic, a certain amusement and fondness for his country simmers behind his face. “Yes, it has habit of doing that.”

“And here, we have Don Colin O’Reilly, of the Irish crime family,” Carmine mildly gestures at Don O’Reilly on his left, yet his tone has already taken on a sliver of exasperation, the kind one would hear from a parent introducing their troublemaking child.

Colin certainly lives up to his street name; Pretty Boy. Despite being forty one years of age, and in no way a boy, the handsome tousled raven hair, attractive matching scruff across his jaw and upper lip, teasing blue eyes and charmingly playful smirk paint the picture of a very pretty man, especially when he seems to have a habit of foregoing a tie to match his suit and instead opting to unbutton the top of his dress shirt, exhibiting a peek of his impressive but not too hairy chest.

“You’re even more beautiful in person than you are in the news and papers love,” the slightly faded Irish brogue rolls off his tongue, standing to greet Eve with a friendly handshake unlike the others had done.

“They’re not very skilled in catching my good side,” Eve attempts at humour – a strain in her current state – presenting differing components of her personality that best suit the corresponding mob bosses before her. Falcone values business skills and honesty, Markovic values forthrightness and straight-to-the-point answers, and so far, from what Eve can discern, O’Reilly values more free spirited and playful personalities and qualities, seriousness and severity only taking hold should the situation direly necessitate it.

Her smile and repressed discontent falters, startled, when his lips and scruff teasingly brush against the skin of her smooth, dainty knuckles. O’Reilly doesn’t break eye contact with her the entire time he bewitchingly kisses her hand, evidently a playful gentlemen at heart.

“Love, all sides of you are good.”

A coarse snort that could potentially be mistaken for a scowl shatters their eye contact. “Keep it in your pants, Pretty Boy.”

Eve’s hazel gaze snaps to the gravelly, displeased tone that inserted itself into their conversation, drinking in the one man at the table she has acquainted herself with before. _Two Face._

Colin merely laughs good-naturedly, a melodic sound to the human ear, as he retracts himself from Evangeline and returns to his seat, Carmine once again taking on the look of a parent wanting to scold their child. “Alright Harv, no need to get territorial. Just being friendly mate.”

Harv scowls a proper scowl this time, unscarred lip curling in distaste. “If your eyes got any fucking friendlier, they’d be stripping her of her fucking clothes.”

A few words are passed between Carmine Falcone and Colin O’Reilly, and yet Evangeline Winter hears none of them, finding herself too preoccupied by her abrupt staring match with the two-faced, hardened criminal. It’s the first time they had met one another’s stare that night, and Eve only wishes she could find _some_ semblance of Harvey Dent behind his gaze.

Grunting, he nods his head at the investigator, a small smirk playing darkly at his lips. “Princess.”

Eve’s eyebrow cocks completely on its own accord, honest amusement dancing behind her hazel eyes. It’s enough to momentarily ease her growing irritation at the monumentally tragic night. “What happened to Dollface?”

“I like Princess better,” he replies, easing back into his chair whilst clasping his hands over his lap, staring at her like a predator toying with its meal. “Though I’m also rather partial to... what was Gordon calling you these days? Angel?”

The North Carolinian’s eyes roll in exasperation before she can even attempt to refrain from doing so, a fleeting crack in her professional persona. “The man has good intentions but the creativity of a Gotham journalist.”

The remark earns an entertained laugh from a few of the men at the table, and the investigator can even hear a small exhale of breath that could be classified as a chuckle from her impassive elder brother behind her. The favourable response eases the intense, fearful thrumming of her heart within her chest only in the slightest, her nerves presently at odds with her reigned in aggravation. Hopefully, the high class mobsters sense neither.

“Please, sit,” Carmine requests after a beat, resulting in Evangeline lowering herself tentatively into the chair at the round table positioned across from the elder criminal, Markovic on her right and Two Face on her left. These men are undoubtedly bloodhounds when it comes to smelling fear and weakness to prey on, and the private investigator merely wishes to be sly enough as a fox to go undetected by them. “I thank you for meeting us on such short notice, especially with the tiring events you have already gone through tonight.”

Eve’s smile is marginally tighter than usual at the reminder. “It’s quite alright, so long as I don’t see any more purple for the rest of the night, I should manage just fine.”

“I see you hired muscle for protection pretty quickly there love,” Colin wryly notes, staring past raven haired woman and at the imposing, hulking figure behind her warily. “Muscle like the Black Dog doesn’t come cheap either.”

“Mm, quite true,” she can’t help the subtle, complacent undertone that is woven into her words and tempting the corners of her lips into what could _almost_ be considered a smirk. She’s still rather fickle tonight after the Joker fiasco, and being called to _this_ last second is _not_ how she wanted to spend the remainder of her night. A sure reason why she’s not as placid as she usually is. “Though, I personally find that family discounts seem to play a rather beneficial part in the hiring of mercenaries, especially between siblings.”

_Bec would be so proud of my ‘wisecracking’._

A couple disbelieving eyebrows at the table raise at the newfound information, but the mafia men otherwise appear unmoved by the reveal. Living in Gotham, with the drama that ensues daily, very little fazes the big time criminals. 

Carmine Falcone’s parted smile tightens for only a blink. “An interesting family you have Miss Winter, and a pleasure seeing you again, Nathaniel.”

“Falcone,” Nate nods, looming behind his sister and casting his gaze constantly to the various corners of the room by habit, eyes never veering from the potential threats to his little sister and himself.

They were being too polite. Too _nice_. Nate didn’t like it. It was like watching a Venus fly trap at work; luring in his sister with the sweet scent of niceties and formalities, putting on the impression – the _illusion_ – that she was some kind of near-equal. Whilst aware of her astute intelligence and intuition, Nathaniel is also keenly conscious of how much his little sister yearns to find redeeming qualities in those who would otherwise be regarded irredeemable. The hope she holds is strong, but twelve years of hoping that the criminals of this city would change has done nothing for the Batman. Hope for redemption and good in this city has long since been written off as nothing but a fanciful notion; a dream. He _hopes_ his sister doesn’t learn that the hard way.

Moderate conversation is exchanged for a short while, Falcone addressing the general, unanimous concerns of the remaining crime families. Eve sits back as patiently as she can be, a peaceful smile slipped onto her lips and nodding in acknowledgement to these concerns every once in a while. Sal Maroni was the King of the Maroni Empire, an empire that has lasted many generations, and was formed around the same time this city was. And yet, he had fallen. What’s to say that they weren’t next?

Evangeline is acutely aware of this, but she has no plans to further antagonise or upset the remaining crime families. She may value the law over their corrupt, immoral misconducts and transgressions, but she’s no fool. If she called for the blood of the remaining crime families, they would be cutthroat, ruthless and entirely apathetic in dragging out her bloody, excruciating demise. Even now, it is evident to see they would prefer her gone altogether, but are attempting at some semblance of diplomacy, a tactic that Falcone is presumably responsible for.

“You’re a smart woman lass,” Colin butters up the North Carolinian, his iconic charming smile playing at the corners of his lips. “All we ask is that you leave our little operations alone, and in return, you’ll have no quarrels with us. The only reason we’re not acting on you removing Maroni is because he’s a right bloody ponce who was far too compromised to run an operation at the size his was. He murdered my own son and Dmitri’s daughter, so I was more than ready to take care of him by any means necessary, you just went about it a bit nicer than we would have. It’s a good offer love; you won’t get one any better.”

_I’m aware of that,_ Eve’s jaw tightens for a tick, employing every last ounce of her willpower to guise the burning fire of ire that she has been trying to suppress the entirety of their meeting thus far. _It’s not as if they knew in advance that the Joker would make it such a strenuous night, I shouldn’t be so sour with them._ Despite telling herself that, when one is in a foul mood, one can’t help but outwardly convey that, voluntary or not. “It’s a generous one at that, I admit,” she adds on in agreement, careful with her words lest she displease one of the men at the table. The tightness in her chest has not lessened whatsoever, her fear at an almost even level with her vexation. “And I do have no interest in actively pursuing any of you, or any notoriously large criminals in this city. I only went after Mr Maroni because it was a sure way to end the mob war in the most efficient way whilst leaving the rest of you as undisturbed as possible. I’ll be more than happy to agree to your terms, I only ask for one small guarantee in return.”

Four sets of eyes narrow at the woman upon the last sentence, either in curiosity, displeasure or suspicion. It is Don Markovic who is the first to cautiously inquire her wishes. “And what is this... guarantee?”

“To please refrain from starting any more mob wars,” Eve imploringly answers, the response seeming to mildly comfort the men around the table due to it being a simple enough request. “I’ll likely keep helping Jim Gordon with a few cases here and there, but if any of them have any mafia connections, I’ll keep my distance, so long as your... _disagreements_ don’t escalate into any large scale mafia feuds. My interest is in the safety of the Gotham civilians, and more died than I realised caught in the middle of your recent dissensions.”

Thoughtful glances are exchanged around the table, the three main mafia heads more adept at concealing their opinions and thoughts than the rogue with the dual moniker. Two Face’s grin is more than amused at the ideal that they could avoid gunning down a few Gothamites as an expense of running their operations, but hell; he was prepared to entertain the woman if it meant she’d stay out of his way.

_Do you even want her to stay out of our way?_ Harvey inquires knowingly from his harsher half.

Harv internally growls. **_The fuck is that supposed to mean?_**

_Admit it; you think her stunt with Maroni was impressive. You want to know what other kind of tricks she can pull. After all, if she likes us more, that’s one hell of a potential ally to have in any future ‘disagreements’. I mean, I personally find her ethical outlook to be refreshing—_

**_Of course you fucking do._ **

_– and I’m beginning to rather enjoy her company, but knowing you, you just want her as an asset._

**_I don’t want anything to do with the broad! The only reason I voted to make peace with her instead of tearing her a new one was because we agreed that we’d leave her the fuck alone if she took down Maroni. How the hell was I supposed to know she’d actually pull that shit off?_ **

_Say what you want Harv, but I think you like how gutsy she is. She’s not exactly hard on the eyes either..._

Harv pauses in consideration, staring at the private investigator out of the corner of his eye. She’s entirely unaware of his internal debate – as well as his staring – finding herself too determined and focused on closing her deal with Falcone and the other bosses. Harv can see how tense she is tonight, however. He can see the way her rosy, cupid’s bow shaped lips are tighter than they were when they last met; jaw more strained and ticking every so often; barely concealed dark circles sitting wearily under her tired hazel eyes. The Joker must have really shaken her tonight, because he had the impression that she was generally a lot more composed than this. She is a pretty little thing though, not that he’d ever admit that to Harvey.

Shaking himself free of such traitorous thoughts, he sneers at his other half. **_She’s a nuisance, that’s what she is—_**

_Right right, and you want nothing to do with her. I suppose that would work out best, considering how O’Reilly seems to be **pretty** interested in her anyway... wouldn’t want to step on his toes—_

Harv’s growl is downright menacing, tone just as biting. ** _ I fucking met her first. If anyone is going to pull off any deals with her, it’s going to be me. She’s my pain in the ass asset, not fucking Pretty Boy’s._**

_My my Harv, I’d be careful, one might begin to think you’re getting territorial over her._

**_Shut the fuck up Harvey._ **

Harvey only chuckles, content in his work, before Harv temporarily blocks him out altogether. Meanwhile, Evangeline Winter is just about to close her long, exasperating, trying night altogether.

Rising to a stand a few moments after Falcone, Markovic and O’Reilly, she politely shakes each of their hands, pleasant enough in drawing their deal to a close. When her hand slips into Two Face’s – the last hand she has to shake – his rough, firm grip doesn’t allow her to go _just_ yet, holding her much daintier, softer hand for longer than one would deem appropriate. Eve momentarily forgets how to breathe at the sheer intensity of his stare, her chest sinking in on itself from the weight of such a gaze.

Something about Harvey Dent – and Two Face – churned a sense of the unknown in Evangeline. Dangerous, uncharted territory. He is the only person in this city who could fraternise with both the rogues _and_ the crime families, a feat not small or insignificant by any means. He had once walked a higher road; this city’s once shining ‘White Knight’. And now? Now he has dirt and blood soaked and stained into his hands, under his finger nails, tarnishing the ends of his sleeves. But he doesn’t forsake what the law had taught him in his time as DA – no, he uses _every_ loop hole and _every_ drop of knowledge from his time as a lawyer in Gotham’s legal system, forging a very potent criminal, a worthy enemy of Batman.

Sure, Two Face is crude. Two Face acts every bit the ruthless, even barbaric criminal if need be, but he’s _smart_. He and Harvey repeatedly bicker and argue to the point of infamously taking out their frustrations on their enemies – and even their own men. That’s what they want you to think, though. They desire nothing more than the rest of the people in this city to see them as a single mad man with a dissociative identity that he can’t even cooperate with.

And yet, Eve can’t believe that. If they truly couldn’t get along, Harvey wouldn’t lend his lawyer and business skills in illegal dealings and meetings such as these, and Two Face wouldn’t allow Harvey to have _any_ say in _anything_ that they do. Their mind is a complete enigma, for you never know if they truly aren’t agreeing, or if they’re actually plotting against you collectively as a united front.

She finds him – them – _so_ fascinating. If Eve had the chance, she would talk to them on a regular basis; provided that she wasn’t somewhat terrified of them – or at least Two Face – and the fact that she’d be pushing her luck with them. They’re a busy man with an empire to run and a Batman to outrun, they would barely cast someone like her a second glance if it weren’t for the fact that they think she could potentially try and go after them next.

Snapping back to the real world, Eve’s eyes are still locked with Two Face’s which are burning hotter than two sizzling coals, completely disregarding the other three members at the table. O’Reilly and Markovic are indifferent to it all, already having nodded and uttered their farewells to the private investigator to attend to their numerous other duties, Falcone, however, narrows his eyes at the interaction, always and forever keenly observant. He hopes that Harv will go easy on the woman; she seems kind enough, as well as reasonable. They had offered her money tonight in exchange for leaving them be, and yet she politely turned them down. She isn’t one to be bought off with materialistic goods, but rather with simple, reasonable enough deeds. If this was old Gotham, Gotham before the plethora of colourful rogues and personalities and tasteless pseudonyms, as well as paranoid vigilantes dressed as flying rodents, then Carmine thinks she could’ve amounted to a well respected peace keeper between the crime families and legal figures. The old fashioned crime families – the ones who were esteemed gentlemen and businessmen with some semblance of a moral compass – are no more though; Carmine Falcone is the last of a dying breed.

_But Evangeline Winter..._

Carmine smiles, a smile that almost all who knew him, knew to be nothing short of wary of.

_She may be a good start in the reviving of such a dying breed._

***

“Let’s have a little chat.”

After such an arduous, wearisome, eventful night – a night which has now officially rolled into the next day – those are the last words Eve wants to grace her ears. After all, she’s exhausted, annoyed, shaken and terrified all in one; perilous ingredients that are sure to result in an equally treacherous concoction if any of these mob men continue to stir.

And Two Face just couldn’t help but stir.

Finally releasing her hand, the formidable felon takes a step back from the private investigator, eyes rising to stare pointedly over her shoulder. Still glaring past her, he gestures aside to a door not too far off and nods his head towards it, continuing “Elsewhere. Alone.”

Eve can sense her brother stiffen. The thought of letting her wander off with a highly dangerous, highly wanted criminal such as Two Face would be one of the _last_ things Nathaniel would _ever_ let her do, but dammit, Eve’s curiosity seemed to even outweigh her annoyance and fatigue at this point.

Glancing at her brother pleadingly, the raven haired woman imploringly asks “Please, Nate. You find us a cab; I assure you I’ll be there shortly.”

For a fair few moments, both siblings do nothing but hold a fierce stare off with one another, neither appearing as if they would budge any time soon. It was almost entertaining to Two Face; Nathaniel Winter, Black Dog, a very sizeable mercenary that could physically rival the Batman, facing off a small, petite, otherwise harmless looking woman who looks admittedly amusing when she’s angry, and neither looking as if they’d give way to the other.

What’s even funnier? It’s eventually _Nathaniel_ who backs down from Evangeline.

**_Huh_** , Harv scoffs, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. **_Broad is ballsy._**

_You would have laughed in her face if she tried that with you._

**_Damn right I would’ve. Would’ve liked to see her try though, could go for a good laugh._ **

Nodding stiffly once, Nathaniel leisurely leaves the two to their own devices, not breaking eye contact with his younger sister until he himself if out of the room. Smirk only broadening, Two Face saunters over and opens the door for Eve to walk through, saying “After you Princess.”

She doesn’t bristle at the nickname, she hasn’t at all so far, but dutifully strides through the doorway and allows Two Face to lead her out of the building, until they exit out into a desolate, dilapidated alleyway that looks nothing short of menacing _. All alleyways look nothing short of menacing in Gotham,_ Eve amends, trying not to smile at the dark truth.

Nothing is spoken between them for a while, Two Face taking his sweet time digging around his pockets for a cigarette and lighter, before lighting the addictive stick of tobacco _just_ as slowly. The night air is cold and unforgiving, biting and slapping away at every inch of skin Eve doesn’t have covered by her coat or pants, and yet it does nothing to cool her temper. Crossing her arms tensely, she doesn’t bite Two Face’s bait, well aware that her criminal companion is merely trying to prompt a rise out of her. She may be curious as to why he requested to talk to her in private, but that doesn’t mean Eve is going to be ever patient whilst he leisurely enjoys his cigarette. _He knows I’m beginning to lose my patience; this is just a little game to him._ The North Carolinian’s lips thin sharply. _Two Face doesn’t think I have it in me to say one impolite thing or openly speak of my displeasure. Just because I prefer not to instigate hostility, doesn’t mean that I am above doing so if need be._

“I sincerely apologise, Two Face,” Eve shatters the silence with mock veracity, not overly rude but enough so that the apology is obviously feigned. “Am I taking up your cherished time? I understand tonight has been _very_ trying for you, so I wouldn’t wish to take up any more of it.”

Okay, maybe she _does_ bite the bait.

That aggravating smirk tilts at the corners of his lips, and as a response to Evangeline’s little outburst, he slips the tobacco back between his teeth and takes one long drag. The smoke dances and plays around in the icy night air, the sparks of orange and red from the progressively shortening cigarette a stark contrast to the black and white suit ensemble of the man holding it and the dreary alleyway they stand in.

Eve remembers the last time she spoke... _out of terms_ to the man before her. It had taken him a moment to register the fact she did, and Jonathan Crane announcing his departure deprived Dent the chance to respond, but something about stunning the ex-District Attorney was so... exhilarating.

_“Despite it not being personal Miss Winter, you’ll have to understand my concern for this matter, and more importantly, who hired you. Which reminds me...” One, long, daunting step is taken, casting a suffocating shadow over Eve, stifling her breathing at the criminal glint that has officially entered his eyes. “Who **did** hire you?”_

_Eve seems incapable of breathing, as if she has entirely forgotten the instinctual act. She knows this is him being nice, which is a given considering the company she is currently with, but she is still unable to deny the fright the man bestows upon her._

_The private investigator is aware that she mustn’t show weakness in the face of a predator however, and so she stores away her anxiety and possible nervous breakdown for her next moment alone at home, as well as answers the crime lord’s question with the propriety of sophisticated woman and an innocent look to match. “I apologize Mr Dent, but someone with your vast arrange of knowledge in law must be aware of client confidentiality, having been this city’s shining District Attorney before your career change. I’m sure you are informed about me personally as well; having read my file and assigned that footman of yours to spy upon my apartment, so finding out shouldn’t take you too long. Now once again, I mean no true offence Mr Dent, but during your attempts on monitoring me you have come off, quite frankly, like a man with the subtly of a brick and the depth of a shot glass... but I’m sure a man of your **stature** is aware of that.”_

It was mocking, but oh so politely spoken. Eve isn’t talking to that man right now though; she’s currently in the presence of Two Face, not Harvey Dent, and she has yet to see how he reacts to acts of contempt.

Meanwhile, in Two Face’s own tempestuous thoughts, he’s presently deciding on whether to slam the snippy woman into the alleyway wall or just take another drag of his cigarette to calm himself down.

**_Did she just... sarcastically scold me?_ **

Harvey hums in amusement. _It appears so._

**_And yet you still think it’s beneficial that she stays alive?_ **

_Come now, we dragged her out here for a reason—_

**_Don’t pull me into this shit; this was your grand idea. Like I want to fucking compliment her on how well she did and warn her of the shit she’s willingly thrown herself into. I only want her to like me more than the rest of those bastards so she trusts us more and will therefore feel more liable to us. She’s a potential asset, that’s it._** Harv pauses, eyes shamelessly raking up and down Eve’s body. **_And maybe a good fuck._**

_So much class Harv... but you **do** admit that you’d want her as a potential asset?_

Harv rolls his eyes impatiently at his other half. **_Yeah yeah, don’t get smug with me Harvey. I had time to think your words over and... it would be a... waste to put a bullet in her and be done with her..._**

_My, you **do** have a heart._

**_Fuck off. I don’t like her. I’m using her._ **

_Hm, of course, of course..._

The coarser half grinds his teeth together in a vice grip. **_Don’t push me Dent._**

For a moment, Eve feels a pinch of her irritation wash away, watching on in fascination as the man before her internally feuds with himself. The manner in which his head will marginally turn side to side, depending on which half is talking, and how his expression contorts from aggressive and arrogant to firm and level, is intriguing to say the least. _Bec is going to have a field day analysing all the more notorious members of Arkham if they’re half as interesting as Harvey Dent-Two Face._

When he briefly pauses in his internal debate and snaps his eyes over to her, Eve begins to wonder what Harvey may have spoken to him, only to experience a slight warmth travel to her cheeks when those cerulean eyes brazenly check her out from head to toe. She feels her blush purely deepen when he seems pleased with what he sees. _Since when did I turn into some prepubescent school girl who gets all flustered when a man stares at her in such a way?_ Something about men in suits has always struck a chord in her, but at the end of the day, that’s all it was. One sliver of physical attraction for the impeccably dressed man with an alluring air of danger and power, scars be damned. And that’s where it ended.

Upon returning to his unspoken conversation with himself, Evangeline sharply clears her throat, prompting him from his contemplation. The mobster expectantly arches an eyebrow at her, as if inquiring why she would want to break the peaceful silence that had befallen the alleyway.

Of course, this only irks Eve that much more.

“Don’t give me that look,” she admonishes, arms still crossed, shoulders poised back, and a dispassionate expression of composed anger resting upon her face. “You are the one who wished to speak to me in private, and now you won’t so much as say a word. You were also uncharacteristically quiet throughout the entirety of the meeting, and kept conversing with Mr Dent continuously during it, don’t think I didn’t notice—”

Harv’s broadening smirk is ridiculously smug and complacent, finally understanding what has put the little private investigator in such a tiff. “Ah,” his gravelly baritone breathes, a deep, low chuckle dancing in the air as he shakes his head. “I get it now. You’re not just pissy because of how that idiotic fucking clown got to you tonight, or because of how you had to meet up with Gotham’s biggest mafia heads afterwards – you’re especially pissy because _you can’t read me right now_.”

 Eve loathes the holier-than-thou grin on his face right now. She also loathes just how _spot on_ he is in his observations.

Inhaling and exhaling, Eve takes a determined step towards the convicted felon, jutting her chin up to stare up at him evenly. “You are precisely correct, Two Face. Tonight at the Winter Gala, I was absolutely _horrified_ to be in the same room as the Joker, the _one_ person I have _ever_ come into contact with who I couldn’t read. He was entirely unpredictable, and as he held my face in one hand and a knife to my throat in the other, I couldn’t tell if he was going to murder me or simply play on my terror.” Breathing out shakily does nothing to lessen Evangeline’s anger or fear. “I get a lecture from Jim and Batman, and then I come home to my brother dangling the Riddler in the air by his blazer –”

Two Face chuckles at that.

“—Not only do I have to diffuse _that_ , but I soon learn that I have to meet up with four of the most powerful criminal masterminds in this city _in the next hour_ to determine whether they wish to kill me in my sleep or not. At least I’ll be able to evaluate the situation and interpret the kind of them that are leading Gotham’s largest crime families, yes? And yet, when I get there, I immediately pick up on the kind of men Carmine Falcone, Colin O’Reilly and Dmitri Markovic are, but the one man there that I have in fact acquainted myself with before is completely closed off. The _second_ person that night that has been unreadable. I can read parts of you now, though. Maybe not your intentions, but you think I’m incapable of uttering something that isn’t polite or kind. You don’t think I can bluntly speak of my anger and frustration with this entire predicament. You are _wrong_.”

Taking another step forward, Eve moves right into his personal space, hazel immovably staring down blue challengingly, and nose scrunching in displeasure. “I am in no gaming mood tonight Two Face. Just because I am a naturally forgiving person who doesn’t enjoy being this angry or taking it out on others, doesn’t mean that if pushed, I won’t. I’m human for Christ’s sake, not this perfect story book character who will forever be nice and pleasant and level headed at every given moment of the day. So, I ask with the last few sane and patient fibres of my being, _why am I here?”_

The mobster doesn’t move for a short while, simply staring impassively down at the woman who doesn’t even meet his nose in height. She’s standing so close that her own chest ghosts along his every so often, a faint sweet scent of orchids, vanilla and amber infiltrating his nostrils. It’s not overly potent, but subtle enough to be enticing.

Thumbing the iconic coin sitting in his pants pocket, Two Face doesn’t even glimpse away from her as he fishes it out and flips it in the air lazily. Only after he’s caught it and removes the hand covering the coin, does he break away to see the result.

Scarred-half up.

Eve wheezes out a cough at the abrupt feeling of her back being not so delicately slammed into the coarse brick wall of the alleyway, the jagged surface harsh and cold on her back. One blink, and then Two Face has joined her, his hands roughly pinning hers to either side of her head, invading her proximity even more than she invaded his before. Annoyance and frustration still sits amongst the other emotions in her expression, but if her wide eyes are any indication to the certifiably insane criminal, her fear has multiplied several times over.

All Eve sees, hears, smells and feels is Two Face. His imposing, towering form takes up her entire vision. Low, guttural scowling rumbling in her ears. Enticing, expensive cologne tickling her nose. Sturdy, unyielding torso pressing her into the wall threateningly as firm hands hold hers in an iron grip. Evangeline is practically breathing the man in he’s overwhelming her senses so much.

“Listen here Princess,” he growls menacingly, his voice echoing in her eardrums a lot louder now that he’s so much closer. “I’ve been pretty fucking tolerant of you not only because of Harvey’s incessant yapping, but because you took care of my Maroni problem. If any of my men said _half_ the shit you’ve said to me in this alleyway so far, I would’ve ripped their vocal chords out of their fucking throats so goddamn fast they wouldn’t have even finished their sentences. I pulled you out into this alleyway to _warn_ you of shit like this, as payment for dealing with Maroni.”

Upon Eve’s mildly perplexed look, Harv aggressively elaborates further. “Just because Falcone, O’Reilly, Markovic and I are taking a step back and leaving you alone, that doesn’t mean any of their men or Sionis or any of the rogues are, and that also doesn’t mean that any of us are your fucking friends. Do you want to know what the four of us spent the last couple days doing? We were deciding whether we should be diplomatic or simply kill you when you arrived here tonight, and it was a very fucking close call to killing you and being done with it. Sionis didn’t even agree to us being diplomatic in the end, which is why he wasn’t here. You can’t continue to be this ballsy and stubborn even if you are doing it in a _nice_ way, because whether you’re a nice human being or a shitty one doesn’t matter to the criminals of this city. Have a little self-preservation Princess, you need it here.”

Evaluating her next words and new advice carefully, Eve’s curiosity once again trumps all other common sense when she cautiously inquires her next question. “When you were all determining whether I would die or not... what did you think?”

Harv doesn’t even try to hold back his eye roll. **_That’s what she picks up from my warning? Fuck’s sake woman... _**“You’re useful, Princess. And you upheld your end of our deal. What do you think?”

The private investigator manages to suppress her sigh of relief. _That’s as close as he’ll get to openly admitting it. I should take my victories where I can._

Sighing, and trying to block out Harvey’s relentless blathering to be nicer about all this, Harv loosens his grip on the woman. “Look, the moment you saw the Markovic and O’Reilly brats die in that alley and told yourself you would do something about it, was the exact moment you doomed yourself to the fucked up, merciless black hole that is the Gotham Underworld and it’s equally fucked up inhabitants. You’re not just messing with thieves, murderers, arsonists, mob men and perverted, corrupt political figures; you’re fucking with the most psychotic, ruthless, heartless sons of bitches in the country. That stunt tonight with the Joker was nothing but a courtesy, a playful introduction to the party that is the criminal underworld you invited yourself to. You’re playing with the baddest bastards in town now Princess... but I’m sure a _woman of your stature_ is aware of that.”

The private investigator’s face, whilst usually well guarded, has been stripped mercilessly of its defences, putting on for show exactly how petrified and chilled to the bone she is, and Two Face revels in _every single second_ of it.

His smirk is downright wicked. “You better be ready to give up those precious morals of yours, because with them, you won’t last a fucking week. Welcome to the _real_ Gotham City, Winter. Enjoy your stay.”

Eve could only stare after the retreating back of the duplicitous Two Face, reality curling its vile talons into her as the poisonous realisation slips its way through her veins and towards her heart the moment he released her and stepped away. She had changed things around here. She was no longer a player or a pawn that could be written off or overlooked. She didn’t have the luxury of being underestimated anymore.

Evangeline Winter had birthed the dawn of a new era. However, that shift of the old era into the new didn’t just demand change from the police, the vigilantes and the criminals – no, _change_ wasn’t just limited to them.

The new era of Gotham City demanded _change_ from _all_ of its players, and Evangeline Winter was about to find out that she was no exemption to that rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	14. PART TWO: Crime Has Two Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, brought to you by Edward Nygma and Jonathan Crane's one (shared) functioning brain cell, a time jump.

_“Madness and genius are two sides to the same coin.”_ ~ John Hendy

_THREE MONTHS LATER – SUNDAY, MAY 8 th, 2016 – ANGEL INVESTIGATIONS, GOTHAM CITY_

“I think my husband is cheating on me.”

“My son has been spending his nights in the Narrows, and I don’t know what he’s up to.”

“Please you have to help me, Miss Winter.”

“I haven’t heard from my friend in _weeks_ Miss Winter.”

“Miss Winter, you’re the only one who can help.”

“I know I gave her up for adoption, but I want to find my daughter Miss Winter.”

“Miss Winter.”

_“Miss Winter.”_

_“Miss Winter.”_

**_“Miss Winter.”_ **

**_“Eva?”_ **

Evangeline Winter sharply gasps at the abrupt voice shattering her thoughts like fragile porcelain, staring up from her cluttered desk of papers to the source of the intrusion. Nathaniel Winter looms in front of her main desk adorning a concerned expression on his face, dressed in a fitted plaid red shirt and worn jeans. His lips are in a thin, grim line. “You work too hard.”

The private investigator can’t help the tired sigh that escapes her lips. “Purely because there’s a lot to be done, Nate.”

The mercenary “hmm’s” noncommittally, sternly staring around the spacious yet modest office filled with various papers and filled pin boards.

In the three months since the Maroni Empire fell, Evangeline Winter has been adamantly sought out and desperately hired by such a manifold of Gotham’s civilians that she has barely been able to stop, take a breath and organise her own thoughts. Between these civilian clients and Gordon’s own cases here and there, Eve has never found herself so successful or busy.

A few weeks after her meeting with the crime bosses, she had already surmounted enough earnings from her work to purchase a new flat on the eighth floor of an apartment building, one that she turned into both an office and her home. Printed on the glass on the front door reads _‘Angel Investigations’_ – a name that both Jim and Rebecca recommended would sell better in the press – a front door that opens directly into her new office.

Her large, vintage, oaken work desk sits in the centre at the far back, the very first thing you see upon opening the door. It’s a nice enough work space, completed with a couple lounges, a coffee table and a bookshelf near the entrance for the clients’ comfort, the back of the room holding all Eve’s pin boards, papers and filing cabinets. The primary desk itself only holds a name plaque, a new desktop PC in the corner, a home phone in the other corner and scattered files, illuminated by the sizeable arched window with a pleasant enough view of the Gotham streets below behind it.

Of course, the right hand side of the room possesses a door that breaks off into her actual living quarters, a simple enough apartment with an open timber floor plan between the generously sized kitchen and living room, her bathroom, bedroom and spare bedroom all separate from the main living area. Eve has always enjoyed windows, a likely reason why she purchased this apartment, which is in no shortage of the glass apertures in the walls.

Rebecca was originally living with her for the first month, before the income from her new work residency at Arkham and her own private sessions on the side allowed her to purchase the flat above Eve and properly open her own practice. Apparently, as much as she enjoyed living with her best friend, Bec couldn’t stand Edward’s consistent breaking in.

The green clad, enigmatic super criminal had begun making his sporadic visitations a regular occurrence in Eve’s life. Why, she does not know for certain, for she hasn’t possessed a _truly_ invigorating case since the mob war, but a part of her holds the belief that Edward simply enjoys being in the presence of someone he can not only hold an intelligent conversation with, but also isn’t a certifiably insane fugitive of the law.

And yet, in all the three months she has been busy with work, she has not seen hide nor hair of Gotham’s infamous vigilante.

Eve can’t help the disappointment that still plagues her as a result of this, though she had seen it coming. He’s not one to open up, or drop by for a pleasant chat. He would need a purpose to come see her again, and being so busy as of late, Eve hasn’t found the time to give the Dark Knight a purpose.

So, for her, the only intrigues in her life at the current time are her work, Edward’s intermittent visitations – which have ceased for the past week since being thrown back into Arkham – and her brother, who is still in Gotham doing odd jobs for Falcone.

“I’m not the only one who has been occupied as of late,” Eve notes, leaning back in her swivel chair and abandoning her work for the time being, attention whole-heartedly on her brother. “How is Carmine?”

“Good,” Nate answers, laconic and flat as always. He doesn’t stare at his little sister, but instead distractedly ambles around the office, surveying the papers and photos on the walls of her open cases. “Asks of you sometimes.”

Eve arches an eyebrow at that, straightening slightly in interest. “He does?”

The elder sibling stiffly nods. “Mm. Things like how you are doing; if anyone is giving you trouble. I think you left an impression on him.”

“As dangerous as he is, Carmine Falcone is one of the last large criminals in this city who not only holds no small amount of power, but his sanity. He’s a business man, and therefore prefers such tactics. As do I.”

Nate’s jaw tightens a tick, Eve observes. A sign of his displeasure. “It’s not smart associating with these people. They like you now, but one morning they will wake up and that will change, sometimes for no reason. _Stop_ trying to get more involved.”

_I do believe that is the longest sentence he has dared utter to me since his arrival,_ Eve wryly makes a note of, his warning essentially going in one ear and out the other. Checking the time on her watch prior to leisurely rising to a stand, the private investigator languidly twists and stretches her back after remaining stiffly stationary for long, sparing her older brother a comforting, reassuring smile. “It’s not as if I am trying to use or do business with them; I’m merely being kind and placing myself in their good graces to limit my enemies in this city – because, frankly, let’s face it Nate, after the Maroni ordeal, I have just as many enemies as I have thankful allies. Therefore, having a vigilante, or a couple Gotham Rogues, or even a crime family or two, in between those enemies and I, isn’t precisely doing all that much harm.”

Shuffling a number of scrawled notes, photos and files together at her own pace, Eve slips them into the time-worn black leather satchel that’s spied upon the entropy of the Gotham streets and madness of the GCPD precinct on numerous occasions, lugged around nearly as often as her white coat itself. “Now, I’m sorry to cut this short, but if you don’t mind brother, I seem to have lost all sense of time and am almost running late. Jim should be expecting me within the next half hour, and I do not want to turn up any later than that. Poor man already has so much on his plate,” Eve apologises, followed by a justified explanation.

Nathaniel doesn’t reply at once, instead observing his younger sister smoothly slip her white overcoat on top of her floral white, pink, purple and yellow summer dress, unhappy with his sibling’s current association with large, infamous criminals, but even more displeased with her near careless treatment of the threatening danger that follows them like dark, impending storm clouds.

The mercenary is still leery of Edward Nygma, but thus far hasn’t otherwise outright threatened the enigmatic villain to leave Eva alone. In spite of his startling lack of an intimidating nature or appearance, Nygma is still one of the Grade A villains of this crime-torn city; many other criminals would rather _not_ be thrown into one of his infamous death puzzles, a fate that is more than likely should anyone harm Eva by this point. Even though he would never dare admit it aloud, Nate believes that Nygma truly holds a soft spot for his baby sister. It’s easy to forget all of his treacherous, heinous crimes when the two intellectuals are standing in the kitchen, baking lemon tarts, wearing pink aprons, and debating whether the rapid increase of entropy within Gotham is a by-product of pollution and crime or merely a result of the council’s refusal to pay for proper reparations when a criminal will merely destroy the streets again in a month’s time.

The mere unwelcome thought of how well acquainted the two intellectuals have become over the past three months is daunting to Nathaniel Winter, to say the least. They have proceeded to get along like a house on fire. Sometimes, Nygma’s more chaotic nature rubs off on Eve, resulting in her pulling harmless yet irritable stunts on the officers of the GCPD who treat her crudely, such as gluing something small and unnoticeable on the bottom of a single leg of their desks to make it _just_ that bit off balance, or finding a way to alter the height of their office chairs and jam them, causing it to remain annoyingly low or ridiculously high. Sure, that may not seem like much to most, but for Eve? It’s a noticeable shift towards mischief in the eyes of Nathaniel.

Sometimes, however, Eve’s more gentle nature _also_ rubs off on Nygma. Little things, such as the occasional display of manners – please, thank you, opening the door for her first – or preparing tea and lunch for her during a strenuous case. Hell, Nate even saw him do a _grocery shop_ for her once, completely unprompted, as well as the dishes another couple times. The Prince of Puzzles does, in fact, puzzle Nate when he catches him during these simple yet helpful acts of kindness. Of course, his arrogance and slanter against everyone else that isn’t Eve hasn’t ceased, though oddly enough, his bickering and picking on Rebecca has become more playfully insulting than outright threatening, which for someone with a mouth like Bec’s, is no small feat for the green clad villain.

For now, the mercenary has his eye on the super criminal – or will, once he inevitably escapes from Arkham again – but his concerns over Nygma in particular have lessened considerably, in comparison to the Dark Knight and Two Face.

Thinking about Caped Crusader immediately puts Nathaniel in a bitter mood. Having operated in Gotham years before, near the beginning of Batman’s vigilante career, Nate had the misfortune to go toe-to-toe with the Dark Knight after being hired by Roman Sionis – who was later discovered to be the Joker in disguise – to assassinate him for one million dollars. Whilst his own morals are in a questionably grey area, after going up against the vigilante once and realising the good he truly is doing for this city, Nate proceeded to back off. Eight other assassins were hired, all of which made the papers the next day – but the Black Dog didn’t. The mercenary was smart, avoided arrest by both the GCPD and Batman, and after reluctantly aiding the Dark Knight a couple times over the night – a reluctance felt by both parties – the Caped Crusader was merciful enough to leave Nate’s name out of his recount to Gordon later. To this day neither of them particularly _like_ one another, but it isn’t as if either of them are actively seeking out each other at the same time.

And yet, he would choose both Edward Nygma _and_ Batman over Harvey “Two Face” Dent any day.

The ex-DA is volatile, violent, unpredictable and unsettlingly sharp. Something that both halves of the man have in common _is_ that razor sharp wit – the way in which they find loop holes in every deal, as well as conducting a number of their illicit activities on the very edge of the law, somehow still in the legal zone in spite of how evidently morally corrupt they are. There are, of course, their _completely_ illegal stunts – robbing banks and casinos, shooting people, torturing leads, assaulting cops – but their time as Gotham’s sharpest lawyer help them avoid outright prosecution for other things they’re knowingly guilty of by conducting them within certain areas of the law. _Suggesting_ to store and business owners that they need their protection for a certain price. Running an actual certified business – Hell’s Gate Legal and Waste Disposal Services – filled with corrupt lawyers who represent the crooks of the town, owned under the name of a man that works for them without any priors. Purchasing safe houses and apartments with legal, clean money that tripled in value in off shore accounts from their time as a lawyer.

Edward Nygma is smart, but Two Face is _clever_.

The elder brother has heard of the violence that Two Face is capable of as well. How he’ll beat a man to death without batting an eye. Stringing out the unspeakable torture of someone who knows something Harv wants to know for weeks, even months. Shooting one of his men in the face if he’s in a particularly irritable mood. Just because Harvey can be somewhat reasonable, doesn’t mean that Two Face is above doing anything disgustingly corrupt or mercilessly wicked. Two Face himself isn’t insane to the point that this violent nature in him could potentially be cured through a skilled therapist in Arkham; that he could be taught and understand that what he’s doing is harmful and wrong. Two Face _knows_ society’s standards of what’s right and wrong.

He just doesn’t give a fuck.

_Hm, Rebecca isn’t just rubbing off on Eve,_ Nate realises, the psychiatrist’s analysing nature shining through him as well. The ability to at least partially understand the perplexing, twisted nature of Gotham’s most infamous, colourful rogues is a tool to both Nathaniel Winter and his sister. It aids him in his own work around the city, and her in her encounters with the Gotham’s Rogues Gallery.

Bidding farewell to his baby sister, who is determinedly on her own way out the door, Nathaniel continues to speculatively mull over the various psychological aspects and personality characteristics of the two criminals and vigilante, as well as, much to his little sibling’s chagrin, the ways in which he could negatively turn them around on the three men, should they ever so much as harm a hair on Evangeline Winter’s head.

***

_Another affair. Why on God’s great earth would someone cheat on their partner? Is it really so hard to file a divorce?_ Eve is aware of all the variables that could potentially inhibit a divorce, such as not wanting to break up a household – kids and pets alike – and other such factors, but stringing along a wife or husband – especially those that have been married for over thirty years – is quite frankly barbaric in the opinion of the private investigator. _That wronged partner could have spent those thirty years getting over him, moving on and marrying someone who would treat them right, and yet instead, this nitwit with an appalling haircut would rather leave his partner with the belief that he love her whilst he took Helen from the hair salon on additional sexual endeavours against a brick wall behind a dumpster on 3 rd._

The North Carolinian pauses in her steps, pressing her lips together speculatively. _Mm, right, I must refrain from growing as attached to my clients’ cases as I currently am, otherwise I may end up informing Nate the addresses of cheating husbands and wives._

 Strolling down the lonesome, desolate, howling streets of Gotham, a smattering of warm colours dusting the very tops of the skyscrapers as the tired sun goes to sleep on the horizon; Evangeline Winter never stops to consider that, perhaps, with the night crawling up on her, she possibly should have caught a taxi back to her apartment. At night, the streets of this crime hungry city grow foul and treacherous; even a righteous man would turn to sin the moment the last drop of sunlight dries up on the pavement. Priests would stare at a woman with desirable thoughts. Business men would allow greed to consume them and commit theft for extra income on the side. Virgin Stacy would dress scantily and stand around on a street corner downtown. And those that don’t cave into sin and corruption? They become the very victims of those who do.

The cold bite in the air has long since passed, Gotham well past winter and nearing the end of spring. Summers in this municipal are overbearingly hot, as if a stifling, humid blanket is draped over the entire city, smothering its inhabitants. Eve’s modest yet not completely conservative dress is breezy enough, her coat; however, is beginning to wear down on her. Flapping the lapels of the white overcoat to allow some semblance of a breeze through, the raven haired woman mumbles incoherently under her breath about the prospect of another trip to the hair salon, now that her thick hair is past her shoulders and progressively becoming a burden in this suffocating heat.

Upon passing an eerie, dark alley that has sucked all the light within in like a starved black hole, the faint sounds of struggling bounce off the brick walls and into Eve’s ears, gripping her ankles and prompting her to stop outside the mouth of the alley. Staring into the abyss, the private investigator narrows her hazel gaze sharply, attempting to discern what could be transpiring inside through auditory deduction alone.

It’s quick, blink and you’d miss it. The initial jarring shock of roughly being seized by burly, calloused fingers staggers Eve for a few moments, and by the time her mind has snapped to attention, she’s already been halfway dragged into the alleyway.

At first, she struggles, _obviously_. And yet she’s quickly reminded of the severity of the situation when a harsh, merciless slap splits the left corner of her lip. Immediately, she’s met with the metallic, bitter taste of blood.

Two men face her, both adorned in suits. _Bulky where the holster would be. Military and bodyguard posturing. Expressions completely unfazed and accustomed to this kind of situation. Cleanly shaven. Expensive and immaculate taste in attire. Shoes shined. They keep up appearances, and are experienced. This isn’t a random kidnapping. This was planned. Too pricy attire for any common criminals, or Gotham Rogue muscle. Mafia, certainly, but I came to an agreement with the four main crime bosses; the only denominator unaccounted for is –_

_Click_.

Eve pauses in her struggling, not even daring to breathe when the safety of the handgun is pulled back, the eye of the barrel staring down at her a couple feet away as dark and foreboding at the mouth of alleyway was just moments ago. The man with the gun, a blonde with a penchant for hair gel, allows the ghost of a satisfied smirk to curl at the corners of his lips, the brunette besides him mirroring his accomplice’s grin. Eve can’t see the man holding her arms behind her back in an iron bear grip, but imagine his expression is somewhat similar to his partners.

“Roman Sionis sends ‘is regards, wishes he could’a been ‘ere in person,” the gangster holding the firearm smugly yet professionally informs, the knuckle of the finger hovering over the trigger dauntingly curling in. Evangeline Winter wasn’t even permitted the opportunity to form and plan and act in retaliation.

_BANG_.

Blood splatters like a Jackson Pollock painting, the body of the hoodlum with the gun collapsing into a heap on the floor milliseconds after the small piece of lead ploughs through his head and into the abyss behind him. Thug two instinctually springs into action – hand, blazer, holster, gun. Thug three yanks her around and employs her as his personal shield from the unknown gunman; or, as Eve soon finds out when she’s spun in the opposite direction, _gunmen_.

Two men, also in suits, stand unwaveringly ready to put another two bullets in between the eyes of the last two of Eve’s assailants, but do, in fact, waver when one of the thugs proceeds to use her as his shield.

Fast, so fast. Eve’s mind can barely keep up and register the past twenty seconds, let alone what’s transpiring before her now. She allows autopilot to kick in. Immediately, she pushes her mad, scrambling thoughts to the backseat, throws her initial state of shock out the window, and stands back as basic instinct takes the wheel.

Nose. Toes. Shin. Slamming her head back so abruptly startles the assailant gripping her mercilessly, the resounding crack of an at least fractured nose snapping in her ears. Heel of her ankle boot ploughs down on the aristocratic, freshly cleaned shoes, smashing his toes ardently. Heel lifts up, striking back into the centre of the sensitive shin, the sharp edge of the boot sure to leave a nasty bruise. By this point, he’s released her enough for Eve to shake herself loose and scamper forward.

Despite his floundering at Eve’s first successful attempt of fighting back, the private investigator barely makes it five feet before a rough, harsh, sharp fistful of her ebony hair is yanked back, drawing a startled yelp from her rosy lips. Reaching back, her petite hands lock around the burly fist of the Black Mask thug, maintaining her grip whilst she fluidly ducks back and under his arm, curling it around until she’s standing behind him with his arm bent back, snapping her leg out to assertively kick him in his keister, prompting him to stumble away from her.

_BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG._

The crack of gunfire was muted to her ears before, but now that Eve is permitted a moment to take in the scene around her, it’s as if the volume of the altercation has been switched back on, the ringing sound of bullets being exchanged sending a jarring jolt back through the private investigator’s system.

And then, it stops.

The two new faces, of which the North Carolinian is unsure whether or not are entirely in her favour, are the only ones left standing besides Eve herself. Facial features as devoid of emotions as a blank canvas, one snaps his green gaze to her, eyeing her up and down analytically, pausing on her split lip. _He’s surveying me for any physical trauma or injury._

“Are you injured Miss Winter?” _Formal. Strict. Professional. Critical. Clearly from organised crime as well, perhaps Carmine?_

“Yes, thank you,” she graciously answers, nodding her head generously, in spite of her expression remaining sharply inquisitive. “May I ask... who sent you?”

For the first time that entire encounter, as short as it has proven to be, the men demonstrate a drop of the human spectrum of emotion. Both of them knowingly glance at one another, the one who previously inquired of her wellbeing even exhibiting a ghost of a smug smirk. “You’re not curious why Black Mask is after you?”

“Oh I am, but I’ll figure that out soon enough,” she dusts off, still maintaining her wariness and distance from the two. “I’d rather know who in particular thinks me to be an important enough asset to assign two men to tail and watch over me.” The moment the words fall from her lips, does Eve decidedly put two and two together.

_Two men. **Two**._

The green eyed man’s ghost of a grin grows into an actual smirk, lazily pocketing his gun back in his holster. “I think you just about figured that one out yourself miss.”

“Two Face owes me nothing, and he must know I’d never do _actual_ business with a criminal,” Eve rebukes, utilising the basic human instinct of how people never fail to correct someone in the wrong to draw more information out of the bodyguard. “He mustn’t truly be so invested in me as to assign two men to protect me.”

“You left an impression on him miss,” the other one with the sharp jaw line and evident Latin American heritage finally speaks up, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but there. “Plus, he considers you his PI, ‘cause of how you two made that deal. So as you can imagine, he won’t be happy that we let that bastard land a hit on you.”

“I’m not _anyone’s_ PI, that’s the entire point of being a _private investigator_.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t tell that to the boss,” the first one recommends, thoroughly amused by how ruffled the less than intimidating woman is beginning to be. “He doesn’t like being told no. As far as you, and he, and all of his men are concerned... you belong to Two Face.”

Standing aside, as if to allow Eve to pass through them and amble back towards the street, both men gesture forward whilst falling back into their blank, professional personas. Green eyes nods sharply at her. “So, unless you have anything else to say miss, my associate and I would highly recommend we walk you the rest of the way home. It’s getting a little dark to be walking all by one’s self, isn’t it?”

The walk back isn’t as eventful as the first half, and despite Eve’s further prodding, the private investigator reaped nothing more useful out of the two men, bar their names; Kevin for green eyes, Dante for jaw line.

Dropping her off at her apartment complex door, Kevin and Dante bid her a goodnight and retreat to a car parked across and a few meters down the road, the raven haired woman berating herself for not even noticing such a simple thing. Somewhere in the recesses of her subconscious, she’s known that car has been there for as long as she’s been in this building, but merely wrote it off as belonging to someone in the complex. _I’m so tired I’m beginning to lose my edge._

She makes the trip up to her flat in a pensive, thoughtful silence, still trying to not address the death scare from tonight screaming for attention in the back of her mind. Eve’s aware that bottling things up isn’t exactly healthy, but she’ll wait to release it all next time Bec has a spare moment.

Arriving at her door, Eve doesn’t even bat an eye when she spies it ajar _. Edward has finally escaped Arkham I see._ It’s the startling, distressing colour of crimson liquid that’s smudged all over the door handle like a five year old that had gotten into the red paint, that sends instant alarm bells ringing in her head.

Slowly pushing her front door open, after wiping down the handle with a spare tissue in her pocket, Eve cautiously closes the timber door with the glass panelling behind her, the _click_ of it locking hardly even audible. As silent as a hobbit, the North Carolinian creeps through her office, surveying it for any collapsed bodies in a pool of blood, she very quickly catches sight of the Hansel and Gretel like trail of blood splatterings spread out across her floor, leading towards the open door that breaks off into her living room.

Gently pressing against the timber of the door that opens to her residential area, Evangeline Winter, not for the first time, finds herself overly startled – and momentarily speechless – at the scene laid out before her. For, not only is Edward Nygma strewn across her lounge, alarmingly orange Arkham jumpsuit tarnished with dark, scarlet stains, but so is Jonathan Crane, the Master of Fear, the Scarecrow himself.

Edward instantly brightens upon seeing her in the doorway, whilst Dr Crane seems to do the entire opposite, pained, sour expression dropping even more.

“Ah, Eve my dear, how good of you to finally join u – why, are you bleeding?” The enigmatic villain scrutinises her face from his weak, injured place on the couch.

“Black Mask. I’ll explain everything whilst I patch the two of you up,” she flippantly waves off his concerns over her, retreating into the kitchen for the first aid kit and other essentials. “First, however, I do believe _you_ have some explaining to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	15. Gravedigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyy action! Wham! Pow! Kablam!
> 
> (I'm high off fatigue and running out of ideas for author's notes as a result of uploading 17 chapters in a row so this story catches up with the versions of it on Wattpad and Fanfic, sue me)

_“Smile, because it confuses people. Smile, because it is easier than explaining what is killing you inside.”_ ~ Joker

Evangeline Winter has long since pondered if she should even bother with the locks latched upon her front door, for despite the security company they were purchased from being fairly reputable and reliable, the repertoire of regulars that make a habit of flippantly trespassing upon her humble abode have persistently proven the futility of such security measures. This thought, along with numerous others born from the incident earlier that night, presently box one another in the ring within the private investigator’s head, some thoughts – such as how she very nearly died – beating other more menial musings into the corner – a prime example would be the lock speculation.

The split in the left corner of her lip stings whenever she pulls her mouth too hard. _But_ , she expostulates with herself, _I could have come out of that altercation a lot more worse for wear should it not have been for Kevin and Dante – and, in turn, Two Face_.

What a peculiar thing it is to feel indebted to a super criminal. Now Harvey Dent; _Harvey Dent_ she could understand. Mr Dent’s capacity for sympathy and differentiating right and wrong has endured all these years, the ex-DA exhibiting this capacity for mercy on scarce occasions. Harvey Dent, in simple terms, is the good cop. He represents the unblemished side of their coin. The side that could potentially result in clemency and absolution. The side where you just _may_ not be harmed.

But Two Face? He, in the same simple terms, is the bad cop. The blemished side of the coin. The side where he is granted permission by chance and chance alone to do however as he pleases with you and your fate. The side where you shall _certainly_ be harmed.

Eve has heard of the possessiveness of the egocentric crime lords in this city. Whether it’s over land, money, businesses or women. But what wild fantasy or inexplicit act gave Two Face the absurd, nonsensical notion that _she_ belonged to _him?_

The private investigator shares these thoughts with Edward Nygma as she tends to him and Dr Crane, only after listening to their own wild, eventful recount of their daring escape of Arkham Asylum. Apparently, it isn’t the first time the two masterminds have joint forces to abscond the dreary, monotonous, life-leeching confines of the insane asylum, and likely won’t be the last. Edward Nygma and Jonathan Crane are formidable on their own, but together, when they aren’t taking cheap, eloquently worded shots at one another, they are a fiendish nightmare that plagues the city in an amalgamation of devilish technology and paralysing fear.

Edward has come to be someone she could nearly classify as a friend, and Evangeline doesn’t have many of those. They will always hold a difference of opinion, always be at odds when it comes to the law and morality, but just like the Dark Knight allows the crimes of the notorious Catwoman to slip under his radar in turn for information within the criminal underworld, Eve has refrained from turning the enigmatic villain in, in which Edward has repaid her through updates of the present happenings amongst the super criminals. And amidst this partnership, they have even grown to enjoy the company of one another.

Jonathan Crane, however, would evidently rather be anywhere _but_ in the private investigator’s company.

“Roman Sionis is an impulsive mud monkey with a temper that has resulted in the fall of his own empire several times over,” the Riddler loftily states, texting away on Eve’s phone now that the North Carolinian has patched him up. Not even glimpsing up from the screen, he takes a tentative sip of the freshly brewed cup of coffee from where he homily stands in the kitchen, conversing with Eve who is finishing up with bandaging Dr Crane in the living room.

“It has mentally compromised the mobster and rendered him paranoid. If anyone so much as proves as the slightest threat against him, he exterminates them by breakfast the next morning. The only opposition still around that has withstood his heedless temperament is Dent, who, when he isn’t arguing with himself, is deceptively sharp and intuitive. For Harvey – or should I say Two Face – to invest in your well-being and safety, is a power move against Sionis. Not only does it slight him, but now, you’re indebted to _them_ , whether you like it or not.”

“It’s Mr Dent’s possessiveness that concerns me more than anything,” Eve admits, deft fingers gingerly disinfecting the two cuts along Crane’s left cheek. The Master of Fear does nothing but unblinkingly stare at the detective, icy, piercing eyes immensely dissatisfied at Edward’s insistence of lying low in Evangeline Winter’s apartment. What would Edward do if he were to stick the PI with his fear toxin, the ex-psychologist wonders?

Pretty faces always hide some form of hideousness within. For Jonathan Crane, he learnt that valuable lesson through Sherry Squires; his high school infatuation, the very girl that was dating his foremost childhood bully, Bo Griggs. Crane is not naive nor irrational enough to blame the entirety of female kind for the act of one pretentious teenager alone, but even after the Squires and Griggs _incident_ , time and time again has the Master of Fear seen the heartlessness, vanity and higher-than-thou disposition of beautiful women, as well as men. Not an inkling of kindness was ever shed on him in his childhood, certainly not from his heretical, deranged, religious fanatic of great grandmother. And now? Now Edward Nygma expects him to blindly accept the _graciously_ extended hand of a woman who is a perfect amalgamation of the _pretty_ Sherry Squires and his _Christian_ great grandmother Keeny. The fact that Miss Winter is acting so humane, sympathetic and _perfect_ merely adds insult to injury.

Evangeline Winter is not perfect. Edward can fawn and dote over the private investigator as much as desires, but Jonathan Cranes knows. He _knows_ Evangeline Winter is masking demons behind a disarming, charming smile and gentle, comforting words. She _has_ to be. Oh, the revelry he will bask in once he strips off that mask. Fear is the master of the mind. Through fear – pure, unadulterated fear – all niceties, lies, and veneers become void, exposed as the perjuries they are. Fear is the truth serum of emotions, an intoxicant the brain becomes drunk off until the subject reveals all in their inebriated, magnificently horrified state. Screams, until their throat is raw. Tears, shed for all their wrongdoings. It is beautiful, what fear and guilt, when amalgamated as one, can draw from the tender, burning throat of a crying, pathetic subject. _What guilt – what **fear** , lies deep in the bottom of Evangeline Winter’s throat, festering, clawing like a deranged animal to break free from that perfect little smile? _The Master of Fear has to repress his own smile at the speculation.

He will find out.

“And what of your brother?” Edward inquires of Winter, just as Dr Crane tunes himself back into the conversation at hand. One dark brow arches curiously upon the pale face of the fear-centric villain, glimpsing between the two other geniuses in the room. _Ah, the brother. That may prove to be an... inconvenience._ Jonathan does not fret, however. In fact....

_That very brother may be the key_.

Keys are capable of a vast array of things. Opening. Locking. Switching. Some open one door, others open many more. The private investigator may have utilised her brother as a key to lock up those niggling little secrets, but Crane – with the right words and touch – could in turn exploit the mercenary to _unlock_ those indiscretions. That is, if Miss Winter proves to be more resilient and sagacious than the Master of Fear presumes her to be in his prodding of her first.

“He’s doing work for Don Falcone last I knew,” Eve answers, ginger fingertips _oh so_ gently applying the butterfly closure to the apple of Crane’s left cheek. Such a tender interaction, even with intensity of his icy gaze burning directly into her own warm, mellow stare. The doctors at Arkham do not exercise this level of consideration when patching him up after a failed encounter with the Dark Knight. Batman’s self-restraint over cold-blooded murder may delude himself enough for the vigilante to believe that he is morally in the right, but the number of times Crane has found himself in the medical facility within Arkham Asylum, on the verge of greeting Death with his own cold hands, would speak otherwise. More bones broken than intact, a greater ratio of bruises splattered over his body than actual unblemished skin, profusely bleeding both internally and externally. Weeks, sometimes months, are spent in an Arkham Asylum hospital bed, the orderlies as caring and accommodating in their ministrations as the coarse Arkham correction officers. A likely result of the abundance of instances where either he or another Gotham rogue has broken free and maimed, traumatised or killed one of their own.

Kindness, in Arkham Asylum, is rather like light. The sun, even on the hottest, brightest days, does not touch a single dreary gargoyle, cell or office in the asylum. The patients that have been locked up in there for years do not remember the warmth of the star. There are days where even Jonathan begins to question his last memory of the sun. The same could be said for the last time genuine kindness was bestowed upon him.

He would almost believe in moments such as this, that Miss Winter, in her solicitous, compassionate care, is perhaps authentic in her humanity. But Jonathan Crane knows better. Humanity is imperfect, it always will be. He _will_ strip her of her mask, but before he does, he will show her his own.

“You have been rather reticent Jonathan,” the Riddler scrutinises Scarecrow, observing him observing Eve. Such silence does not bode well, Edward knows. “Any thoughts of your own that you wish to contribute?”

The Master of Fear has remained motionless for so long, even the air around him has settled. The only sign that he is in fact alive, is the rare blink and rise of his chest. Eyeing the North Carolinian as she packs away the last of the first aid kit, finally having finished tending to his wounds, Crane languidly takes his time answering, words sharply drawn out. “Not particularly, no. I possess no interest in Sionis or Dent. My own studies are far too imperative to involve myself or pay attention to power plays amongst scrambling mob men.”

“Tsk tsk, telling lies John?” Ed shakes his head disapprovingly, the exchange piquing Eve’s curiosity further. Slipping the first aid kit back into the cupboard above the kitchen counter, the raven haired woman leans closer to the emerald-clad villain, devouring every word, motion, tone and expression.

“After all,” the Riddler continues, still toying with Eve’s phone in hand, but now staring down the Scarecrow. “You only recently purchased several firearms off of Sionis. Perhaps all those chemicals and toxins are finally affecting your memory, my fear-obsessed confidant.”

Eve’s hazel eyes widen marginally larger. “Oswald Cobblepot is the only black market arms dealer in Gotham that deals with criminals in power. If Sionis is now covertly selling firearms, Mr Cobblepot will be none too pleased with the development. Does he know?”

The enigmatic villain snorts his amusement into the mug of coffee, leisurely sipping before responding to the PI. “Of course not. Not yet. Sionis only started dealing a little less than two weeks ago. Everyone is aware of Black Mask’s position of power in Blüdhaven, Gotham’s sister city. _There_ he operates an empire vast enough to rival Carmine Falcone, and has regulated a successful illicit firearms syndicate for four years. In Gotham, however, he has struggled to maintain a foothold, between Cobblepot’s higher quality stock and Dent’s greater position of power, whilst simultaneously warding off the vigilante Nightwing in Blüdhaven and the Dark Knight here in Gotham. With the Maroni crime family out of the picture, there is less opposition, and more territory to claim. Dent will undoubtedly have his hands full in the upcoming months, as will Cobblepot.”

Evangeline Winter ponders upon this. Unlike Sal Maroni, who Eve was capable of besting with enough incriminating evidence after severing all his resources, Roman Sionis’ empire would be far more arduous to dismantle, for it stretches across two cities, and also involves an entire black market firearms syndicate. Eve knows when she is out of her depth; she doesn’t possess the physical tenacity and prowess required to put a stop to Sionis, and if tonight was any indication, the criminal will not be leaving her be any time soon.

_If the media was to learn of the precarious predicament involving Cobblepot, Sionis and Dent, therefore compelling the Dark Knight, the BPD and the GCPD to focus on Sionis as a result of societal pressure however..._

“Dr Crane,” Eve pipes up, addressing the felon on her lounge amidst walking towards the bedroom that breaks off from the kitchen, for this is precisely what the PI needs to distract her from the attempt on her life tonight. “Where precisely did you purchase these firearms from again?”

“Sionis operates a legal freight yard and dock ten minutes out of the city, between Blüdhaven and Gotham. It’s registered under one his forged identities and an off shore bank account, as are numerous of locations purchased by any notorious criminal with half a brain,” the ex-psychologist responds, loud enough for the PI to hear from her room, mildly amused at the newfound conviction in Miss Winter’s eyes that surfaced the moment Edward mentioned his purchase from the brute of a mobster. _She surely cannot be deliberating sending officers or federal agents after him. Roman Sionis is not Salvatore Maroni; he would ruthlessly gun down those officers and proceed to tear her in two before I get the chance to dissect those coveted secrets_. _Would be entertaining to watch her fall from that elevated pedestal, however._ “Of course, there are armed men around every corner. Would be _quite_ the shoot out if you unleashed your little GCPD dogs upon them. Not that the police would possess enough evidence for a warrant in the first place.”

As the infamous Scarecrow disinterestedly replies and condescendingly offers his patronising opinion, Edward Nygma regards the PI analytically, fleetingly glancing away when she begins to get undressed, respecting her modesty. The enigmatic super criminal is familiar enough with the North Carolinian by this point to spy when the gears inside her head are grinding, a plan taking shape. When he glimpses at her next, Ed is unable to repress the eyebrow raise upon his face, taking in the newly attired private investigator; sports leggings as dark as coal with a single light stripe running down the outside of each leg; a black, strappy tank with a white sports bra peeking through; black and white Nike running shoes; and an ebony leather jacket. The striking contrast of the colourful, floral dress she was previously adorned in and the now dark, sharp demeanour is startling.

“I have no intentions on hiding behind any officers tonight,” Eve evenly dishes out, expression as steady and composed as fine cut marble. “If I can obtain photographic evidence to leak to the media, enough scrutiny will be pinpointed on Sionis for Cobblepot, Dent, the Dark Knight, the Blüdhaven Police Department _and_ the Gotham City Police Department to focus their ire and attention on bringing him and his illicit syndicate to a stop.”

Striding towards Edward purposefully, she expectantly holds her hand out to the Prince of Puzzles, the criminal in turn relinquishing the detective’s phone. Neither Jonathan Crane nor Edward Nygma seem convinced by the attempted steely display, the former borderline bored whilst the latter could nearly be described as mildly concerned. _Nearly_.

“You weren’t even competent enough to fend off three gunmen without the aid of Dent’s men an hour prior,” the Master of Fear disparages, critically surveying Edward’s likely soon-to-be-deceased toy. “You intend to charge into a facility swarming with armed, merciless gangsters, with nothing but your wits? You are bringing a camera to gunfight.”

 “Not quite.” After pocketing her phone, Eve reaches behind her to the small of her back, withdrawing the .45 Winchester Magnum from its holster, as well as a taser strikelight and pointedly exhibiting the weapons to the two convicted felons. “I’m bringing a camera, a gun and taser-flashlight to a gunfight.”

“I must discourage this detective,” Edward finally chimes in his opinion, observing the PI holstering her small weapons. “Simple minded cretins they may be, but they are proficient in pointing a gun and shooting. You simply do not possess the stealth or prowess of Selina Kyle. You are walking into certain death. Have you considered, in the very least, contacting that buffoon of a brother of yours?”

Eve sighs at the mere thought of her over-protective brother joining her endeavours tonight, tongue absent-mindedly running over the fresh cut in her lip. “And allow him to completely derail my operation? No, as much as I care for Nate, I have no intention of engaging in anymore physical altercations tonight. The gun is a mere precaution. If I’m successful, I’ll be in and out without Sionis so much as knowing I was even there.”

“And if you’re not successful?” The Riddler inquires, disregarded coffee now colder than ice.

The private investigator pauses at the front door leading into her business, assuringly smiling at Edward and Jonathan. “Then Mr Sionis will have to learn that an attempt on my life is hardly disheartening enough to scare Evangeline Winter into submission.”

***

With Edward and Jonathan recuperating back in Eve’s apartment, the North Carolinian finds herself, not an hour later, peering around the cool, worn left-side corner of a steel freight crate, calculating the safest possible route to manoeuvre around the two armed assailants stonily standing at the mouth of the dock warehouse. It took longer than she would have preferred trying to slip past the watchful eyes of Two Face’s men – Kevin and Dante – stationed outside of her apartment complex, but she managed nonetheless, by the skin of her teeth. The taxi trip was short, and getting into the shipyard was simpler than estimated. Traipsing around it, however, has proven to be overly troublesome, even with Dr Crane’s forewarning. Everywhere she turns; there are men, armed to the teeth in grade A weaponry. How she hasn’t been discovered yet is beyond her, but with her adrenaline on an all time high, Evangeline Winter tries not to over think anything too much, lest she distract her mind to the point of a potential capture.

Deftly, Eve sneaks a quick photo of the two men standing at the entrance of the actual warehouse, the rusted, obscure fishing company sign wearily hanging above the towering opened doors, adding a particular post-apocalyptic feel to the place. All around the raven haired woman are stacks and stacks of the steel freight crates, towering and looming over her, some stacks as tall as the warehouse itself. Unfortunately, all are locked. Though _highly_ life endangering, the likelihood of finding _unlocked_ freight crates with weaponry in the heart of the dockyard – the warehouse – is too high for the detective to pass up.

Not often is it that Eve willingly puts herself in perilous predicaments such as this, but the attack on her life tonight – the haunting memory of staring dead down the barrel of that gun, hopeless, helpless, frozen in fear with a certainty of death if it wasn’t for Kevin and Dante – struck something within the private investigator. When the Joker held a blade to her neck the night of the Winter Gala, Eve may have felt more terrified, but not hopeless. The Joker’s taunting and threatening was a result of a build-up, Eve watched as the altercation played out before her, swaying his interest whilst remaining wary with her words. But tonight? Tonight was a flash. A lightning strike. One second, she was peacefully ambling down the pavement, the next, she was immovably trapped in place in a desolate alleyway, a gun to her temple, her head a tizzy from a harsh slap. There was nothing she could do. _Nothing_. Evangeline Winter, felt absolutely _hopeless_.

Sionis has to be stopped. He has made it clear that Eve is on his hit list, and even with Two Face acting as her very own Guardian Devil watching over her, she doesn’t feel safe. Not whilst Black Mask is still at large.

One of the guards wanders off momentarily, continuing his patrol. Eve wastes no time in twisting this to her advantage, stepping back and digging a loose penny out of her leather jacket pocket. Fondling the coin in hand, she pegs it at a freight crate across the yard; close enough for her to reach with her toss, but also near enough to the lone guard to hear once the impact of metal on metal rings in the warm night air.

Immediately, the guard moves to inspect the disturbance. Acting quickly, Eve bolts back to the other end of the crate she is hiding behind, tip-toe jogging around the crate tower anti-clockwise until she is standing right outside the warehouse gates. Warily peering around the crate from the other side now, the detective spies the guard still inspecting the noise, bending down to pick up her penny. With his back still turned to the immensely tall, opened warehouse entrance, Eve is light and agile in slinking into the warehouse, instantly creeping around more crates inside as a means of utilizing them as cover.

Patches of light are too few and in between now that she is inside, the bright, glowing moon no longer staring down upon her surroundings like a spotlight. Retrieving the taser strikelight from its home beside her handgun, the PI cautiously turns the light on, facing the torch down at her feet to avoid alerting any potential guards within the vicinity.

The warehouse is like a maze. One wrong turn could mean a dead end – whether that is an end to a path, or a fatal run in with a guard.  Eve chooses her paths wisely, _so close_ to bumping into armed hostiles on more than one occasion. Her heart is so high in her throat; she can feel it thrumming all over her head, behind her eyes, in her ears, against her teeth. Adrenalin, whilst useful in repressing the full extent of a painful injury in the midst of confrontation, is loud and near blinding in instances of stealth and secrecy. When Eve stumbles upon an unlocked crate with the lights off and no criminals presently guarding it, she requires a moment to gather the strength necessary to suppress that very adrenaline before slipping inside the towering box.

Aiming the taser-flashlight around the lengthy shipping container, Evangeline almost drops the light in her alarmed stupor. This single container alone holds boxes upon boxes of cargo. Setting her sights on the closest one, Eve mindfully pries the military style gun crate open, shedding light upon the semi automatic rifles peacefully lying within. “Jesus Almighty...” the private investigator breathes, eyes widening tenfold as realisation dawns upon her. “This single shipping container alone is potentially holding twenty to thirty military grade firearms, and this entire freight yard is housing close to one hundred of these containers...” _Try not to think about it too much Eve._ “It’s enough to build a small militia. Why does Sionis need _this_ many guns?” _Mm, definitely try not to think about it too much. At least, not now._

Snapping another few photos before slithering back out of the container again, Eve makes to round a corner when the near-undetectable tread of boots crawls into her ears, close enough that if she gasped, the guard would hear. _Agile. Airy. Featherweight. Quick on his toes. He’ll be on me in milliseconds; must think fast. Too close to run. Reflexes will likely be lightning fast if he’s this deft on his toes. If I crouch and strike from below seconds before he steps into view, the initial shock of the attack from underneath will bestow enough time for me to tase him._

_Out of time. Three... two... one—_

Flipping the taser option on, Eve rolls out from her crouch nimble and smooth, arm with the taser striking out in a sharp upwards jab at the guard’s abdomen. The entire manoeuvre is one fluid motion; one the North Carolinian would be proud of in any other instance. Except, in _this_ particular instance, her adversary is quicker.

And a vigilante.

Startled as he is, the vigilante adroitly blocks the assault and swipes it to the side, trapping the attacking hand and nearly jamming it right into Eve’s gut in retaliation. At the very last second he manages to hold off, registering the fact that she isn’t, in fact, one of Sionis’ men. Eve, in turn, also takes this time to analyse the vigilante, quietly hissing through her teeth at the awkward angle he is bending her wrist.

“Nightwing?” Eve lowly inquires in disbelief, crouched before Blüdhaven’s standing defender, completely at his mercy.

“The one and only,” Nightwing proudly whispers back, Eve’s wrist still locked in his grip, recovering from his own initial shock of seeing this woman right here, right now. It doesn’t take long for his own memory to snap into place, recognising the familiar face of the detective. “And _you’re_ that PI that took down Maroni a few months back. Everyone in Blüdhaven heard about that little stunt. Well, not little, definitely not little, in fact colour me impressed, I’ve been trying to dismantle crime syndicates that efficiently for _years_. Definitely didn’t expect to see you running around here though. What did Roman Sionis do to get on _your_ bad side?”

Releasing the wrist of Gotham’s Guardian Angel, Eve takes the chance to rise to a stand, massaging the end of the offended appendage and fleetingly surveying the vigilante. _Raven hair. Blue eyes. Six feet tall. Voice is deep, but not overtly so. Estimated age is late twenties. Toned, masculine physique. Not built like a brick wall, not like the Dark Knight. Leaner. Subconsciously perched on his on his toes. Dancer’s poise. Reminiscent of a ballerina, or an acrobat. Physical dimensions and training match up with hypothesized identity. Mild level of sweat accumulated on corners of temple. Has already exerted himself, yet no alarms or warnings have been sounded. Has thus far evaded detection, same as I._

“Three of his men decided to pay me a visit tonight,” Eve answers in a hushed tone. “Dragged me rather unceremoniously into an alleyway. Wasn’t particularly enjoyable. The press will have to take a photo of my good side for a little while, unfortunately,” the PI gestures pointedly at the cut in her lip, still attempting to calm her beating heart. “Only reason I am even alive right now is because, for some unfathomable reason, Two Face is invested in my well-being. Two of his men saved me. The irony.”

“ _Two Face?_ As in... Harvey Dent, notorious criminal mastermind, big bad mobster, scourge of the Gotham banking community. _That_ Two Face?” The black and blue clad vigilante repeats incredulously, sceptical of the words exiting both their mouths.

Eve rather nonchalantly hums, a pinch of discontent woven into her tone. “Mm, yes. So as you can see – and pardon my language for this – Roman Sionis has effectively earned a position on, as my compatriot Rebecca Daniels would describe it, my ‘shit list’.”

“And what does walking into a heavily guarded freight yard with nothing but a taser accomplish?” Nightwing sincerely asks, his tone reminiscent of a scolding mother hen, despite Eve likely being a few years his senior. The detective is merely waiting for him to disapprovingly place his hands on his hips and address her with ‘young lady’.

“Should the media become enlightened about Sionis’ attempt at securing a foothold in Gotham once more – with a black market firearms syndicate no less – the news coverage and societal pressure will incite law enforcement and the Dark Knight to shift their focus onto him, not to mention that the other crime lords – particularly Dent and Cobblepot – will feel slighted by Mr Sionis’ attempt at infringing on their revenue and territory. I have no intentions on starting another mob war, far from it, but if I can run Roman out of town until I can figure out a better plan of action, then my life expectancy may just extend by a few more years again,” the private investigator softly discloses, huddling in closer to the crime fighter due to the low level of her voice. “Oh, and I didn’t walk into a heavily guarded freight yard with _just_ a taser. I have a gun as well, I’m not an amateur.”

“Begging your pardon,” the vigilante struggles to repress a grin, briefly throwing his hands up in the universal sign of surrender before sobering up again. “I’m guessing by your tenacity that telling you to turn around and go home is out of the question. You did well with Maroni, so I can get behind this for now, see how it plays out. But for future reference; don’t walk into life endangering situations like this without the proper training. You may be a champion when it comes to a battle of wits, but words won’t protect you from apathetic criminals with guns, vile intentions and no remorse.”

Eve isn’t so naive as to believe that she would last in a physical altercation with any of the cutthroat thugs that serve Black Mask. Not only are they sizeably built with a higher durability, stronger physique and plenty of criminal confrontations to match, but their moral compass is so ludicrously far off from the North Carolinian’s own it’s laughable. In her heart, Eve knows should it ever come down to it, she wouldn’t be able to take a life; she simply does not possess the capacity to do so. It is not her right to decide the fate of an actual human life, whether that human life deserves to continue on living or not. It is not her place to decide that.

But these people? These people wouldn’t care. Many aren’t delusional. They fully comprehend humanity’s ethical standards, social norms and the justice system’s established judicial laws. They are merely missing or neglecting the very thing that Eve’s brain filters through every time she is forming an opinion or determining a course of action;

Morality.

Not all criminals, including the seemingly apathetic ones, are wholeheartedly lacking empathy, though. Some do, some don’t. If Eve has learnt anything from Bec’s dialogues on psychology, it’s that there are varying degrees of intensity when it comes to apathy, empathy and anti-social personality disorder. Anti-social personality disorder is what official clinicians generally use instead of the term psychopathy, for when one hears the term ‘psychopath’ or ‘sociopath’ or ‘psychotic/psychosis’ – all of which are _different_ mental illnesses – there is immediately a negative stigma on the terms.

Sociopaths and psychopaths are not inherently evil. Not all are callous. Not all are manipulative. Most, in fact, are high functioning. Many prefer occupations that involve some degree of power, often found to be politicians, doctors, lawyers, judges, businessmen and women, and so on and so forth, but a person could go their entire life without realising that someone they know is a sociopath or psychopath. In fact, psychopathic traits exist, more or less, within everyone. The varying degrees of intensity in the distribution of these traits are obviously different for each person. As professor of psychology and neuroscience Kent Kiehl put it in his book ‘The Psychopath Whisperer’ _“... **most** people have very low levels of the traits, **some** people have a bit more of the traits, and only a **few** people have high levels of the majority of the traits. It’s the last group that scientists reserve for the diagnosis of psychopath.”_

_The point is_ , that despite many of Gotham’s prominent, infamous criminal masterminds and lackeys exhibiting particular traits that are associated/found in psychopathy – said traits that blur or eradicate the ethical obligations Eve experiences as an empathetic person – that doesn’t necessarily mean they are entirely without reason or concern. They are not delusional. They are aware. They simply do not care, but some – those that exhibit less psychopathy than others – _can_ care. Yes, they do not experience emotions as intensely as others do, but they still possess the capacity to do so.

It is that very capacity, that very _possibility,_ of even the most apathetic, cold and uncaring of Gotham’s criminals to feel remorse or consideration for anyone other than themselves that drives Eve to do what she does. Nightwing may be right, words may not protect her from apathetic criminals with guns, vile intentions and no remorse, but if these criminals can experience emotions such as anger, resentment and pride, then Eve holds hope that they _are_ capable of other kinder emotions. Care. Sympathy. Society may have long since given up on them, but she will _not_. The raven haired woman is aware that yes, perhaps she is naive in this respect, for this puts her at a disadvantage, trying to bring out the best in people who commit horrid, unspeakable deeds and feel no apparent remorse for doing so. Evangeline Winter is aware she will very likely die trying to bring out the humanity in those who appear to have none, but that is who _she_ is.   _That_ is her super power. Not her brain, not her detective skills, not her sharp tongue.

Empathy and hope.

It is a dismal world that she lives in, where people write off ‘hope’ as a cliché or an ignorant ambition. For people to hear, read or see a character in movies, TV shows, books and other stories that is motivated by hope, and instantly write them off as idealistic or boring. Because of this, when Eve expresses her own optimistic views about current global issues to those around her in real life, all she receives are pessimistic reality slaps in return.

The people of the real world have stopped believing in the possibility that good things _can_ happen, even in the most unlikely of places and people. They romanticise and idolise fictional super heroes and redeemable villains, but when faced with real people, real heroes and villains, they cease to believe that they could be anything like those they adore in their stories. Pessimism and the inability to hope for the best affects everyone around them, conditioning the impressionable younger generations to grow up in a world with free will that no longer believes that stories could be anything more than they are; just stories. But every writer’s masterpiece reflects a part of themselves, their beliefs, their experiences. All stories have an element of truth in them. Reality.

Stories are caricatures of the real world and real people. So why is it impossible to believe that there are real villains capable of being redeemed, or at least learning from their wrongdoings? Why is it unfathomable to presume that even the most apathetic of people can have a change of heart? Just because they don’t take the chance to change, that doesn’t mean they are incapable of doing so.

Humanity has been conditioned to see the world as black and white, but Evangeline Winter prefers to see the realities of the world bursting in all of its ambiguous colours.

Comfortingly smiling at the vigilante, Eve pushes aside her own internal musings, holding off on voicing her opinions of the masses of ‘apathetic criminals’. In spite of it all, she physically wouldn’t last against them, and does comprehend his point. “Will certainly take your warning into consideration next time, thank you.”

The crime fighter exasperatedly shakes his head at the evasiveness of the investigator’s response, yet finds himself unable to wholeheartedly guise his soft smile. It was that kind of tenacity and conviction that Dick himself held when he finally convinced Bruce to train him to fight crime and help people. With perseverance like that, it’s no wonder than Miss Winter was able to take down Salvatore Maroni.

“Just stay behind me and out of sight,” Nightwing evenly instructs, slipping back into his more guarded vigilante persona. “If any of Black Mask’s men catch sight of you, they’ll use you as leverage. Not that I need to tell you that...”

“Understood,” Eve complies, attempting to contain her enthusiasm as she shoots a thumbs up his way.

Nightwing, as it turns out, is extraordinarily light on his feet. Whilst Eve cautiously creeps her way around freight crates, silently taking photos of notable illicit assets, the vigilante practically _dances_ from crate to crate, poise absolutely immaculate, gliding around on the tips of his toes, shoes absorbing all contact with the ground to render his landings completely silent. One by one, Black Mask’s men fall, never once following Gotham’s unspoken, primary rule when under the potential threat of a vigilante visit.

Always look up.

At one point, as Nightwing completes a silent takedown of a thug supervising a cluster of weaponry crates marginally larger than the others found inside the shipping containers, the North Carolinian spies another patrolling mobster walk out from another container, back to her, about to round the corner and discover the vigilante breach. Thinking fast, Eve tip toe runs up behind the felon, closing the distance just as he lands his eyes on Nightwing and the incapacitated guard.

Gun snaps up at the same time Eve’s taser snaps out. Before the convict even properly raises the gun at the hero, the taser strikelight finds its home sharply jabbed into his neck, Eve’s free hand shooting out and around the waist of the thug to grab a hold of the firearm, lest he accidentally fire in the midst of his convulsions. The PI holds the taser in place for a few seconds, lifting the hefty semi automatic rifle away from the con as he progressively sinks to the floor. Finally releasing him, Eve pulls herself and the taser back from the concussed criminal, the thug now ungracefully collapsing into a jumbled heap on the cool, concrete floor. Gingerly, Eve lies the gun beside him, avoiding causing too much of a commotion with the entire endeavour.

When the detective glances up, she can’t help but smile at Nightwing, who is proudly giving her his own thumbs up with an escrima stick in each hand. Lightly jogging over to meet him as he drags the unconscious criminal out of sight, the two then proceed to survey the weaponry crates, the vigilante prying one open as Eve flashes her light on what lies inside.

“Dear God...” the private investigator breathes, heart skipping a beat upon identifying the RPGs and grenade launchers within.

“This is heavy duty fire power, and a lot of it. Roman _has_ to be planning something; this is beginning to exceed your every day arms dealer level of weaponry,” Nightwing whispers, peering at Eve as she sneaks a quick photo. “Journalists are going to have a field day with all these photos you’re getting. Make sure you find the right one to give all of this evidence to, there are still many of them that are bought out by the mob.”

“I have one in mind, don’t worry,” Eve tries to ease the crime fighter, gently beaming at him. “I’m more concerned about who is supplying Mr Sionis with—”

_“Entire shipments of highly valuable explosives don’t just go **fuckin’** missing!”_

A hand finds its way firmly around Evangeline’s waist, pulling her flush against the chest of Blüdhaven’s protector. Milliseconds later, the detective has to stifle a small yelp of surprise at her abrupt flying lesson, Nightwing launching them both impressively high in the air with his grapnel launcher, expertly perching the two of them well above on the structural beams of the warehouse ceiling. Once making sure that the PI is well balanced on the beam, Nightwing sinks into a crouch whilst Eve warily seats herself with her legs dangling over the side, the two eventually shifting their focus to the source of the outburst.

Several men walk into view, but the leading man in charge rather evidently stands out amongst the tense lackeys. Garbed in an all black suit with an unbuttoned black dress shirt to match, a stark contrast against his impossibly pale, ghastly skin, Roman Sionis’ second hand man Corbin Graves simply exudes the same unsettling, uneasy aura that Roman Sionis is said to possess himself.

Corbin “Gravedigger” Graves is a wall of a man, easily matching Nathaniel Winter and the Dark Knight in size and muscle. Infamous for being a master at torture and intimidation techniques, taught by Roman Sionis himself; the bald, sharp, ruthless criminal first became notorious for biting off a large portion of a police officer’s ear in the midst of an interrogation. Eve briefly studied Graves when she educated herself on the top mob men in each crime family, ring and syndicate, and Corbin Graves instils pure, unequivocal nausea within her gut.

Opening the camera option on her phone yet again, the private investigator is quick to take a few photos of the scene playing out below, before swiping on to the video option and selecting record.

“T-The shipment was intercepted before it reached the docks Mr Graves sir,” one lackey is man enough to answer, steeling himself before the much larger, imposing figure of Corbin Graves. “The ship itself was found this afternoon, emptied, with all the men shot dead, so it wasn’t the Bat—”

“That Two Faced sonuva bitch Dent is the only one with balls big enough to steal an entire shipment of weaponry from the boss like that,” Graves threateningly scowls, menacingly stalking close to the crates of RPGs and grenade launchers Eve and Nightwing were standing by seconds ago. “Somebody find out if that bastard is suddenly armed to the teeth with the boss’ new toys. I want some fuckin’ _names_ before I report this shit to Mask, or you may as well walk up to Face himself and let him have his fun, because when I’m through with you, you’ll be fuckin’ _wishing_ that Dent got his hands on you instead.”

Three men scatter, trying their best to not make it seem like they’re fleeing from the scene in a desperate attempt to escape the wrath of their second boss. At the same time, amongst the various grumblings and growling of an ireful Corbin, another flunkey arrives at the scene, as uneasy as the last bearers of bad news. _Certainly not a good sign_ , Eve worries, phone zooming in on the exchange. Graves appears to think the same.

“You better be ‘ere to tell me some good fuckin’ news Rich,” the cold mobster dangerously advises, tone disturbingly, hauntingly low.

The reluctant, loathsome pause before the response is all Nightwing, Eve and Corbin need to hear – or not hear, in this instance – to know that no, Rich is undeniably _not_ here to inform Mr Graves of ‘good news’. “We haven’t heard back from the men sent after the PI, boss.”

An eerie, tense, heart-dropping pause.

_“And?”_

“A-And we sent men to her apartment to find her just in case—”

“Did they?”

Another pause.

Eve’s heart drops.

_Edward. Dr Crane._

“Haven’t heard back from them either.”

Nightwing spares her a side glance, head tilted perplexedly. “You didn’t mention they came to your apartment,” he mumbles, blue gaze narrowed in on her curiously.

“I didn’t know, I had already left to come here,” Eve honestly whispers in return, remaining composed and thankful over the ambiguity of the hired muscle’s recount. _If he had known and spilled the metaphorical beans about Ed and Dr Crane..._ Eve doesn’t know what she would’ve done, truth be told. Nightwing certainly wouldn’t have taken kindly to that titbit of intelligence, and the less Sionis knows about her relations with other criminals, the better.

_BANG_.

Just like Alexandra Markovic and Sean O’Reilly four months prior, Eve witnesses yet another abrupt, unprompted murder. Corbin is entirely unmoved by the man’s death at his hand, but _very_ much affected by the displeasing relegation of information. Eve nearly drops her phone from the suddenness of the outburst.

“If that broad wasn’t capable of pullin’ the trigger on pussy boy Maroni three months ago, she sure as hell ain’t capable of murderin’ six of our guys,” Corbin barks at the remaining men standing, an ice cold bite coating his tongue. “If it’s that brother of hers, I want him dealt with. If it isn’t, I wanna know what fucker she’s got guardin’ her back. Black Mask wants her gone, and either _she’s_ gone by the end of the night, _or you worthless fuckers are!”_

Only two men are left standing beside Graves by the time he has articulately expressed his discontent about the situation, the others having scampered off in attempt to dig up information on her. With just the three of them left now, Nightwing rises back to his full height, glancing pointedly at the PI. _‘Stay here,’_ the vigilante mouths, expertly walking backwards on the beam with such practiced poise he simply _has_ to have been an acrobat or trapeze artist at some point within his life.

_Not like I’m going to jump 65 feet (20m) and into the range of an unhinged mobster who wants me dead, but sure,_ Eve rambles to herself, nodding in consent nonetheless.

With her phone still recording, it’s merely moments later, as Corbin begins to suspiciously examine the disturbed lid of the crate Eve and Nightwing were inspecting, that said vigilante flies out from the shadows, cleanly kicking unconscious one of the armed underlings.

_“It’s Nightbrat!”_

As if they were hiding in the shipping containers all along, several guards come swarming out of nowhere in no time at all, elevating Eve’s concerns for Blüdhaven’s crime fighter. The North Carolinian soon learns that her concerns are redundant, for the vigilante soars, vaults, somersaults and aggressively dances around the hired cons with such ease, she finds herself in awe. Additionally, the commentary is unanticipated, yet thoroughly humorous.

“Nefarious characters; check. Ill-gotten firearms; check. Distinct lack of brain cells; _definitely_ check. Yeah, this is gonna be fun.”

“You guys know fifty thousand volts to the head hurts, right?”

 “I should shut my eyes, might even things up a little.”

“Come on guys, put up a fight, please?”

_“You don’t stand a chance Nightwing!”_

“Why so pessimistic?”

_“We’re gonna leave you in a pool of blood!”_

“Oh no, and I _just_ had my suit dry cleaned.”

The sense of humour is a refreshing breath of air to Eve, adding a particular element of entertainment to the otherwise brutal altercation. The growing smile is cleanly wiped off the investigator’s face, however, when she notices Graves reaching for an RPG inside one of the crates.

_Quick, what to do?_

Promptly finishing her recording and pocketing her phone, Evangeline glimpses at the chain precariously attached to and hanging off a support beam to her left, hastily predetermining a course of action.

_No time to plan; just do._

Shakily rising to a stand, the detective reaches for the top of the chain wrapped around the beam, swiftly yet precariously walking backwards with balanced, hastened poise. Lifting more and more of the chain towards her, Eve eventually bestows herself with enough length and running start distance to propel herself into a swing. Which, is precisely what the private investigator does.

Staggering into a light jog, Eve quickly launches herself off the support beam and into the air, the chain promptly going taut from gravity and her weight pulling back down again. The North Carolinian’s airborne body is falling and swinging faster than her poor heart, said organ high in her throat by now, blocking the screams attempting to tear their way out. _Bad idea bad idea bad idea bad idea –_

Her aim – which, is obviously directed at Roman Sionis’ second hand man about to launch a rocket equipped with an explosive warhead at the black and blue clad crime fighter – is prominently off, so operating on the same adrenaline Eve propelled herself into the air with, Gotham’s Guardian Angel bit by bit allows her hands to loosen around the chain, sending her closer and closer to the floor at a semi-controlled rate. With Graves’ back to Eve, attentively aiming the RPG at Nightwing, he hardly even bestows himself enough time to discern and register the raven haired woman dropping from the sky, releasing the chain once she’s close enough to the ground and utilizing the momentum built up in her swing to flow into a roll. The roll then in turn flows into a sprint, until Eve all but throws herself into the side of the RPG, the shock of the abrupt barrage loosening Graves’ grip on the weapon enough that she knocks it clean out of his hands.

It only takes a few seconds for the mobster to identify his assailant, yet Eve twists those seconds to her advantage, projecting herself away from the towering wall of muscle. There isn’t the foggiest chance that she could best the cutthroat crook in hand to hand combat, and as of now, the adrenaline thrumming in her veins is mingling with her chest pounding fear, threatening to overwhelm the detective. If she doesn’t maintain a level head and her sharp wit, she _will_ die tonight.

Corbin Graves’ lips progressively curl into a smile as realisation gradually dawns on him, until the cold con bursts out laughing like the lottery’s several million dollar jackpot was just relinquished unto his lap. Squaring his shoulders, the two determinedly stare each other down, Nightwing still handling numerous assailants in the background.

“And I thought tonight was only gonna get worse,” the felon grins, teeth reminiscent of a great white shark. “Looks like things are beginning to look up.”

“Which is ironic, considering the fact that if more of Gotham’s deplorable mobsters and gang bangers _actually_ looked up – just now being a prime example – then you could potentially avoid vigilantes and petite five foot seven women dropping down and handing you your proverbial posterior,” Eve snarks back in such a poised manner, that one could not even properly label it as snark, but more along the lines of politely making a point.

Graves scathingly snorts, darkly amused. “So, takin’ down Maroni has given you some balls huh? Easy to be a hero when you sit behind a desk, letting GCPD pigs, feds and fuckin’ vigilantes knock your enemies down a peg or two.”

Heavy, creeping, deliberate footsteps. Even with strained grunts and other aggrieved clamours sounding from the brawl beside them, the torturously, unhurried _clack_ of pricy, aristocratic shoes as they meet the harsh concrete floor thrums in Eve’s ears, like a hangover that demands your attention after a night of regrettable or questionable activities that were – at the present time – thought to be a good idea.

“You’re like a bloodhound; a bitch who gets their kicks from the chase and the hunt, but not the kill itself. Almost a pity, really. Morals, emotions, religion, the law... so _restricting_ ,” the deplorable Black Mask mobster deliberately circles the hyper aware PI, painstakingly slow, his cold, indifferent expression moulding into a semblance of hollow disappointment for a fleeting moment. Emphasis on the ‘fleeting’. “Doesn’t really matter now though. Any other time I would revel in dragging this out, enjoy a little foreplay...”

_Click_.

For the second time tonight, Evangeline Winter stumbles upon herself jarringly staring down the barrel of a gun.

“... but I’m in a pretty shitty mood and really would just rather kill you now.”

Corbin Graves is too far for Eve to yet reach, and should she draw her own gun, the PI would fail to even take the safety off before she finds herself with – as Two Face would quote – ‘a bullet between her pretty little eyes’. Like two burned out chunks of coal, his impossibly dark eyes hold no sympathy or true regret for the North Carolinian, just two empty shells, a bottomless void from which no humanity can be found.

And then, the gun goes off.

Several blurring events happen at once, and with the human brain’s capacity to only truly focus on one thing at a time, the key figures of the altercation all fail to notice something. Corbin Graves fails to notice Nightwing’s impeccably well aimed escrima stick throw, the electro-shock baton soaring sharply through the air in a small, twirling storm cloud of electricity. Evangeline Winter fails to notice a second assailant taking aim at her, too enraptured in evasively ducking Graves’ incoming fire. Nightwing failed to notice Eve pickpocket the disruptor gadget from his belt when he grapnel boosted them up atop the support beams, and in turn, Graves failed to notice the detective activate the disruptor during their brief conversation. The only member who did not fail to notice something amidst this scattered chaos, is the unimportant, nameless thug that was previously taking aim at the female detective before perceiving the disrupting device.

Like a lapse in time, a brief interlude that stretches into an eternity, various actions and reactions take place in these few, ephemeral milliseconds. And then, in the time it would take to snap one’s fingers; the fallout.

Corbin’s gun jams from the disruptor. Nightwing’s escrima stick knocks the firearm cleanly out of Graves’ grasp, sharply electrifying him in the act. Eve promptly darts out of the line of fire as a precaution, towards a forklift. And the inconsequential, insignificant hired criminal that managed to evade the Blüdhaven vigilante’s warpath, unlike his comrades, retrieves a jagged, weighted nearby pipe that another thug had discarded, taking a direct, merciless swing at the otherwise occupied Evangeline Winter’s head.

The world around detective Winter does not fade gradually, or spin like it does in the movies. No, the reality of it is; one second, she is outsmarting the opponent holding her at gunpoint, and the next, nothing. No thoughts, no lingering pain, no dawning realisations.

Just, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	16. Cabin Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We stan and appreciate all Robins of past and present in this household.

_“We are only as blind as we want to be.”_ ~ Maya Angelou

The dark is such a peculiar thing; so often feared, twisted, villainized. It is so simple to besmirch and malign the unknown, uncontrollable, intractable. And yet, many a time it is not the dark itself that one fears, but either what is within it, or what it represents.

In the English language alone, there are bountiful connotations and interpretations of the dark. Some associate it with being ‘left in the dark’, or unknowledgeable on a subject they otherwise feel entitled to, others identify it with harrowing, triggering memories or pure, unadulterated evil. Then, there are those who hold more agreeable correlations or feelings with it, find comfort in nothingness, or work to twist the dark into their favour, terrorising the wicked with a force supposedly even more formidable and oppressive than them. Ultimately, however, the dark is as changeable as the human perception. It is something that can be made into anything. If a tale requires a villain, that it shall be, but it could as easily be converted into a hero. The dark can be anything anyone _wants_ or _needs_ it to be in that moment, and in Evangeline Winter’s case, it is the ambiance in which everything of intrigue is born within, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ alike.

As of this moment however, she merely finds herself within its _literal_ throes.

Groggily blinking away the sleep which weighs upon her lids like lead, the private investigator takes her time rousing from the involuntary slumber, indulging her scattered senses and memories for a minute as they respectively compose themselves. Cool clean cut metal against her back, persistent clicks and clacks of an overworked keyboard in the near vicinity, disgruntled bat squeals bouncing around faintly tailed by their cavernous echo, dampness permeating the air, the incoherent mumbling mingle of voices, a sharp sting crying for more attention from her busted lip, and an all too new yet undesirably familiar thrumming ache blooming on the side of Eve’s head. These are the first sensations that make themselves known to the detective, long before sight is even brought into the equation.

Each muscle, bone and joint feels stiff to the North Carolinian, protesting against much movement as Eve brings a weary hand to her eyes, massaging them and wiping away the sleep gluing the lids shut. She likely isn’t in any immediate danger, otherwise she’d be bound or dead, the detective concludes. All other deductions jump around like frantic leaves caught in the loud gales of a fervid hurricane, Eve attempting to reach out and grasp them but failing as a result of her still very much throbbing and spinning head.

She is, however, beginning to decipher the mumbling voices.

“You should have just taken her back home or to a hospital or something—”

 “A hospital? For a concussion and busted lip? Come on Timbers, we get concussions every other week. Plus, if I took her to a hospital they would’ve wanted to know _why_ Gotham’s darling Guardian Angel is harmed and in my arms—”

“Don’t get me wrong Dick, I greatly admire Winter, and her detective skills are unparalleled – sorry B – but bringing her here? Letting her _wake up_ here? You’ve just given her an arsenal of ammunition against our _secret_ identities—”

 “I personally think she likely already knows who you all are.”

“ _Thank you_ Babs. Wait… what –?”

“How’s your head, Miss Winter?”

All voices cease as if the sound on a television was muted, Eve aware of all eyes in the vicinity burning into her in a manner that is likely akin to a deer in the headlights, despite her own eyes still wearily waking up and gazing heavily at a blurred cavern ceiling. _Back to calling me Miss Winter I see,_ Eve notes immediately, a little disheartened at the fact. Groaning unintelligibly, the private investigator finally grasps at enough consciousness to possess a suitable amount of composure and perceptivity, rubbing gingerly around the blooming lump of pain the back of her head involuntarily adorns, and clearing her throat of sleep in order to respond properly to the familiar voice of a particular vigilante. “Constantly reminding me of my own blunder in a most uncomfortable manner, but otherwise still whole. So I can’t complain.”

Lethargically sitting up, short, tussled raven strands of unkempt hair hang limply in her focusing vision, the thirty-four-year-old woman running a haggard hand through the offending hair, glimpsing around for not even a few milliseconds before resting on the congregation of vigilantes stood around a sizeable towering station of screens and technology. Eve is vaguely aware of the catwalks and other elevated metal runways and platforms scattered around the spacious cavern, various other points of interest such as the infamous Batmobile amongst other things peeking at her in her peripheral vision from where they are dispersed around the area, but for now, she remains fixated on the cluster of crime fighters.

Batman. Nightwing. Robin. Oracle.

Bruce Wayne. Richard Grayson. Timothy Drake. Barbara Gordon.

Of course, with each of their respective masks veiling their identities, the only unlucky one proves to be Miss Gordon, who is seated plain as day in her wheelchair at the computer station, without so much as a domino mask to protect the Commissioner’s daughter’s identity. The three men are distributed around the young female, all staring distinctly at the private investigator.

The Dark Knight is the first to move upon her response, closing in on the small distance that lies between him and the North Carolinian on the first aid table, Eve mildly startled by how quickly he is in her immediate proximity. Gloved fingers, rough in texture but kind in touch, run tenderly through her hair, ghosting over the fresh lump blossoming on the back of her small head. It had stopped bleeding, bits of flaked, drying blood clumping strands of the obsidian coloured hair together around the wound. The Knight had examined her earlier, but it had been well over an hour now since Dick had come scrambling into the cave, Evangeline Winter unconscious and limp in his eldest son’s arms, and Bruce wanted to evaluate the extent of the damage again, just to be sure. The split in her lip is also well dried now, an injury obtained even earlier in the night, according to Dick.

Bruce being Bruce, had obviously assumed the worst when the Blüdhaven vigilante summoned him back to the Batcave, only to discover the subject of his feuding thoughts unconscious in the last place he’d expected her to be. Three months had come and gone since he’d last been in the presence of the kind Evangeline Winter, but make no mistake, he _had_ seen her. The positioning of her new apartment windows made it near impossible to peer in on her in the late hours of the night from neighbouring buildings, but he _had_ seen her, and not just in the papers or on the news whenever she successfully closed a more notorious case. He had seen her entering and exiting the GCPD, confronting cheating spouses, collecting photographic and other evidence out on the streets, peacefully ambling down to the convenience store on the corner of her street, and even on her Friday night visits to the little dive bar three blocks down from her old apartment. She may have not seen him in the past three months, but he had certainly seen her.

It was not as if he did not _want_ to see her, especially after she bestowed him with an open invitation to visit whenever he desired. No, the reason he has yet to take her up on the offer, is simply because her heart is too big, and all too quickly, was he finding himself becoming attached as a result of it. To label it as an infatuation may be slightly premature, but it is not often that Bruce allows himself to care about and trust people he meets. His sons and Alfred are different, they are family, Barbara just as much as them. But anyone outside that little circle? Clark, Jim Gordon, Diana, Selina, Talia Al Ghul, and many other names that he could spend a good time listing? It took a very long while to start allowing them to even worry about him, or care about his wellbeing, or trust them in the slightest. Even now, many of the names that come to mind he doesn’t trust wholeheartedly, not yet. Talia and Selina are two women he’s had on and off infatuations with in the past, and yet despite that, Bruce could never quite completely open up to any of them, and not just because intimacy such as that is hard for him to give, but rather their professions and moral code always left them at odds too great to ignore.

But, that is not the case with Evangeline Winter, is it?

Eve’s moral code almost perfectly pieces with his own, like a puzzle piece. There are miniscule differences, such as her far more understanding and gentle nature in regards to the deplorable villains Gotham’s underworld has to offer, yet it also that very understanding and gentle nature that Bruce has come to find – dare he say – endearing. It isn’t just the safety of a person that matters to her, but their feelings as well. There’s never just the hard choice between option A or B when push comes to shove, but rather a slightly kinder and unforeseen option C. And, as much as Bruce dislikes the very thought of it, Miss Winter has now survived encountering and conversing with the likes of Edward Nygma, Harvey Dent and Jonathan Crane, without so much as an ounce of violence from either side. In fact, according to his eyes in the Iceberg Lounge, by the very sounds of it, two of the three flagrant rogues have even potentially been somewhat _amiable_ in her company, amiable by their standards, at least.

Bruce nearly outwardly sours at the fleeting thought, playing it off as concern for the lump on the detective’s head. The Joker at the Winter Gala seemed intrigued by Miss Winter as well, and if four of his greatest adversaries have already shown an interest in the private investigator, it won’t be long until more follow. _Especially_ after tonight. Speaking of which…

“A mild concussion, it’ll heal in a little over a week,” the Dark Knight diagnoses, drawing his hand away from her tussled hair, Eve’s head following his movements until she catches on to what she’s doing, leaning back away. “I have come to overlook a lot of the stunts you pull due to trusting your extensive capabilities as a competent investigator Miss Winter, but what you did tonight was reckless. Infiltrating a heavily guarded dock yard full of armed, trained criminals with little to no self-defence training yourself, and no backup. If Nightwing wasn’t there, you could’ve died tonight.”

“Twice. _Twice_ I could’ve died tonight, but I didn’t,” Eve amends, at least possessing the courtesy to act sheepish. “I understand my lapses in judgement, and have learned from them, but I wasn’t going to idly sit around and wait for another attempt on my life as a result of Roman Sionis feeling undermined and threatened by my very existence. As much as I love Jim, going to him and requesting a detail of potentially bought off or corrupt cops wouldn’t help either. All I needed was some incriminating photographic evidence to pass on to the press and—”

“You went into an unknown hostile territory unprepared and unaware of what lay within—”

“I already knew that within the past two weeks Roman Sionis had started dealing firearms to big criminal names in Gotham under Cobblepot’s and Dent’s radar before entrenching upon the dockyard myself, a dockyard that’s registered under one his forged identities and an off shore bank account. Jonathan Crane himself recently visited and purchased firearms from Black Mask—”

“And that’s another thing,” the Knight cuts her off again, steely gaze pinning the investigator down from beneath the intimidating cowl. “You have already drawn far too much attention to yourself after dismantling Salvatore Maroni’s empire. By associating yourself with the likes of Crane, Nygma and Dent you are declaring yourself as a worthy adversary and target to any other big names out there that have found an interest in you—”

“Well I would have been more than willing and ready to associate myself _you_ instead but your absence the past three months has clearly conveyed the message that you wish to hold no association with me whatsoever so I had to make do,” Eve evenly retaliates back, withholding the majority of the bite from her tone, but unable to hide the trickle of hurt and disappointment underlying it.

A tense silence befalls the cave, a silence so prominent that even a single breath sounds like a roar. Both detectives hold one another’s gaze, neither willing to back down from their stare off.

A beat passes, and then…

“ _Ooft_.”

“ _Ouch_ , even _I_ felt that”

By this point, Barbara Gordon has mastered the art of being able to reach up high enough from her wheelchair to slap the back of Richard Grayson and Timothy Drake’s heads, the aforementioned boys whining in complaint and rubbing the offended spots. All three had been animatedly watching the exchange, and all three could tell by the manner in which Bruce had been admonishing the North Carolinian that he clearly cares for her more than he lets on. What had startled them the most, was the fact Miss Winter was able to keep up. Admit her mistakes, but not tuck her metaphorical tail between her legs and let the Dark Knight scold her. She fought with valid arguments and refused to back down, and it’s not as if standing up against _Batman_ is a walk in the park; the vigilante is a wall of muscle with a face of stone. There’s a reason criminals fear him like no other.

Yet when Gotham’s Guardian Angel retaliated with that last remark, Tim Drake and Dick Grayson’s jaws just _dropped_. Even Barbara’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch. Not just because it was, in itself, a very compelling response, but because it left Bruce standing there, staring unblinkingly down at the Southerner with a resolute yet slightly softer face.

And Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, the Caped Crusader, the _Dark Knight himself_ , did not know what to say. Because he knew, _he knew_ , there was no one to blame for that, but himself.

Sighing tiredly, Eve spares the vigilante from their intense stare off by glancing away and wearily rubbing at her eyes again. Batman takes the moment to survey the smaller woman, noticing how fragile and vulnerable she really appears before him. With the harsher edge to his voice now gone, the Caped Crusader’s tone remains steadfast, but gentler. “It’s not that. I’ve just been busy.”

The excuse sounds pathetic, even to his ears. Robin, Nightwing and Oracle seem to think so as well, wincing at the justification.

Eve’s laugh is quiet, quick and melodic, but not one out of amusement. Rather that of a hurt songbird. Because that is what she is; Evangeline Winter is _hurt_. Not despairingly so, but enough. She had really begun to enjoy the crime fighter’s company, and despite the fact that she has not been willing or able to label her muddle emotions these past three months upon realising the vigilante had no intentions of taking her up on her invitation of friendship, she can’t quite deny the unpleasant feeling now.

“Please, Mr Wayne, I entirely understand if you do not wish to divulge your reasons why to me, but do not think so little of me that you believe I am incapable of seeing through weak lies. I deserve better.”

By that point, Tim and Dick’s jaws really did drop open, Barbara mildly taken aback that her premise was correct, but not startlingly so. The Dark Knight merely holds Eve’s steady gaze again, immovable and uncompromising. “What gave it away?”

Grayson nearly splutters at how easily his surrogate father caves, blinking at the hard man. When Tim had discovered their identities a couple years ago, Bruce spent a fairly long time attempting to convince the younger boy otherwise, that he was wrong. So for the uncompromising Dark Knight to just give in, _just like that?_ It was unprecedented, unheard of.

“With all due respect, you are a _little_ obvious, not overtly so, but enough so,” Eve admits, brushing an unruly strand of hair out of her vision. “Point one; Batman appeared right around the time when Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham City after being absent for four years. Now, I’m aware of the principle that correlation is not causation, and that could just be a timely coincidence, but it helps build a base for my argument, so I’ll start there.” Sitting up a little straighter, the investigator continues.

“Point two; Your parents passed at such an early age for you – my condolences, by the way – because of a shooting; more than enough motive for someone to want to prevent such crime like that occurring again. It’s an experience traumatic enough to mould you into the emotionally permanently state the Dark Knight is consistently in; brooding, cut off, reserved and independent. Point three; Batman simply _must_ be well off financially, how else would you be able to afford the plethora of gadgets, high tech combat suit, your various modes of transportation, etcetera. That argument in itself narrows down the list of potential suspects to Gotham’s elite, and upon factoring in the psychological profiles, personalities and moral codes of the well-known wealthy members of Gotham’s socialites, that refines the list even further. Point four, and an elaboration on the third argument; the man behind that cowl has to either be highly proficient and talented with technology himself to engineer his abundance of gadgets, or is acquainted with someone who is. If you’re a billionaire, which I hypothesized as highly likely before your confirmation just now, that could point towards you being a corporate billionaire, in which case, the likelihood of your company possessing an R&D Division or an Applied Sciences division is sky high. Said R&D Division or an Applied Sciences division in turn would be archived to avoid suspicion or inspections from employees without a high enough clearance. Wayne Enterprises’ Applied Sciences division is archived. Now, you could’ve been a billionaire from a different industry, yes, but business or corporate seems more suiting to a brooding vigilante than doctors – who generally help people, not inflict them with a myriad of broken bones – or politicians and lawyers – who by all accounts should uphold the law – or any other industry with sizeable income.

“Point five; Bruce Wayne so happens to be the largest benefactor to Arkham Asylum, supplying incredibly innovative and highly advanced technology as security, and always supports and funds anything criminally related that would result in less criminal activity. Very invested in crime prevention, then, supporting my second argument. Point six; Batman and Bruce Wayne, even if they end up at the same function – where Joker or some other Gotham heathen hijacks it – never seem to be seen in the same room together. It’s simply incredible how one of Gotham’s favourite eligible bachelors manages to evade such dangers even when he was sighted at the gala or charity event or political campaign earlier that evening. Point seven; vaguely around the same time period that you adopt a son, a new Robin materialises. Three adopted sons, three different Robins with noticeably dissimilar appearances. Speaking of appearances, a fitting segue into my last and most conspicuous point; you. _You_ are the most obvious giveaway of your own identity.

“I’ve only officially met Bruce Wayne once, but I don’t forget people easily, especially their appearances. A person’s body is what I read, it’s the storybook of their lives. What they did that morning, what recreational activities they partake in with their spare time, what they do for a living, their attitude towards particular individuals or topics, and so on and so forth. Bruce Wayne’s height, width, weight, facial structure, voice, eye colour, gait, inflictions of tone depending on his mood, posture, callouses, age and muscle proportions match perfectly with that of Batman’s, and it’s very difficult for more than one person within the same city area to perfectly tick off every one of those boxes. They may tick off a few, certainly, but not all. He – _you_ – do.”

Another silence settles in the damp air of the vast cavern, choking the respective reactions out of the vigilantes gathered. Timothy Drake, the most intellectually gifted of Bruce’s three surrogate sons so far, favourably appraises the private investigator from afar, a smile ghosting the eighteen-year old’s lips. Since the fall of the Maroni empire, Tim had been particularly intrigued by the North Carolinian, a fascination that is reminiscent of his initial curiosity and eagerness to learn under the notorious vigilante Batman when he was younger. For years Tim followed the Dark Knight and the two Robins before him in the media, yearning to study and train under the Caped Crusader’s tutelage, but he knew he would have to prove his worth first. He had already deciphered the identities of Robin and the Dark Knight by this point in time – when Dick was still the Boy Wonder – a deduction surmised after exhibiting the eldest Wayne son perform an acrobatic manoeuvre that he had seen Richard Grayson display with his family, whilst the Flying Graysons were still alive and entertaining. After a few years of educating and training himself in an assortment of martial arts, acrobatics, detective skills, and scholastics to enhance and better himself in all aspects mentally and physically, did he approach Bruce Wayne, a year after the death of the second Robin, Jason Todd. It took no shortage of persuasion, but eventually the billionaire caved. Tim has only been Robin for a couple years now, but has never experienced such a sense of fulfilment before becoming a vigilante of Gotham, and truly revels in every second of it.

The young Boy Wonder had assumed that now, proudly under the tutelage of the Dark Knight himself – despite Bruce still struggling to grasp at the more familial, fatherly aspect of their relationship – that he would be content to remain firmly under his mentorship for a while longer, no other people of interest particularly seizing his intrigue. And yet, for the past three months, that is precisely what Evangeline Winter has done; garnered his interest.

The private investigator has become a person of interest to many players in Gotham since her stunt with Salvatore Maroni, all for a variety of reasons. In Tim’s case, it’s as a result of his desire and passion of wanting to learn _more_. Yes, officially, Bruce is the world’s greatest detective, but the manner in which Miss Winter picks apart and analyses every miniscule detail, down to banal, bland specifics that many would overlook, is simply _incredible_. Bruce, Dick and his masks all have detective mode visors that aid them in piecing together a crime scene and, based on the evidence and state of the scene, render a basic visual of what occurred. But _she_ doesn’t even need a mask, or a visor. Her brain simply does the deductions all by itself. After witnessing the investigator deconstruct the presumably perfect, fortifiable wall that stood between their crime fighting identities and their civilian ones, Miss Winter only solidified Tim’s official decision.

She was going to teach him how to do it, all of it. And, in turn if she would like, he would teach her some basic self-defence, so the middle aged woman wouldn’t feel so helpless should she find herself cornered in an alleyway by calloused mobsters again.

The Boy Wonder nods, content, yet no one else seems to notice the outward display of an internal decision being made, the beginnings of a scheme brewing beneath the surface. Dick Grayson is too caught up lingering somewhere between impressed and amused after Miss Winter’s explanation, Barbara Gordon is ruminating over the various points made by the detective, and Bruce Wayne and Evangeline Winter are far too preoccupied in engaging one another yet again in a stare down – or in Eve’s case a stare _up_ , the billionaire being six inches taller than the smaller Southerner.

“I trust you’ll keep that information to yourself,” the Caped Crusader ultimately responds after a beat, stern blue gaze glimpsing warningly at Eve. He trusts that she is certainly clever enough to know that, but it’s a warning better to be spoken than left unspoken.

The softest, most assuring of smiles graces Eve’s sore lips, pulling at the wound in the corner. Reaching out, she tenderly grasps Bruce’s upper left bicep, lightly rubbing it in an attempt at comfort. “I would never jeopardise you or anyone you care about, I _promise_.”

A noncommittal grunt lingers in the back of the Dark Knight’s throat, searching gaze pinning Eve down a few seconds longer. The billionaire’s personal interest in Evangeline Winter is contending with his vigilante’s wariness of the newfound development in their relationship. Very _very_ few outside of his crime fighting circle are conscious of his or his wards’ identities, and as a result, Bruce knows he should remain on high alert around the PI, knows he should keep a watchful eye. But Eve, amidst all the kind words, gentle smiles, concerned glances and uncompromising, determined actions, has also _maybe_ grown on the brooding, stony hero, and he’s aware that may be obscuring his better judgment a little more than appropriate. It’s difficult to not find the woman endearing though, even moments ago, as she sat before Gotham’s most feared guardian of the night, a man sixty-nine pounds (thirty-four kilograms) heavier and six inches taller than her, with around one hundred and twenty-seven forms of martial arts training under his belt, and still refused to back down, staring straight into his eyes with a resolve that would’ve melted away the moment he too fixed his attention on her hazel gaze should she have been most other people.

He recognised a fire behind that gaze, one he hadn’t seen from the North Carolinian in all the time he’s known her thus far. Whatever transpired tonight, or whatever circumstances or events have shaped and toughened the private investigator these past few months, have shaken and pushed her enough to coerce her into action, and not the orchestrator kind of action she usually partakes in. She didn’t call the GCPD tonight, or him, despite having his number for urgent matters, and being targeted by Black Mask _twice_ is _very much_ an urgent matter. No, she braced an armed dockyard of mobsters and cons, taking firsthand action against the man who has put out a hit on her. Brash, reckless, naïve. But also gutsy, tenacious, intuitive. The Dark Knight certainly doesn’t doubt her intellectual prowess and sharp, instinctive wit, but her empathy and compassion could put her in a position incapable of making tough decisions, or put her in danger should she confront physically imposing, apathetic adversaries, as she did tonight.

And yet, that _fire_.

Bruce had begun to believe he had the raven haired woman construed, but he supposes, he believed the same of Harvey Dent before he lost his friend to the criminal element he fought so hard to lock away. The Batman isn’t concerned about Miss Winter changing sides anytime soon however, her morals and humanity for those around her are too well ingrained in her being, but that flame burning behind her eyes is new, and growing. There’s the wild, lawless, searing fire that roars from within him, as well as numerous other heroes – and villains – that sometimes threaten to go too far, to blaze a little too hot. It’s a dangerous, unruly flame, one to be wary around, but Evangeline Winter’s one is not that. Hers is warm, not hot. Inviting, not threatening. A cosy, comforting cabin fire on a biting, cold winter night, not a blazing house on fire at the centre of a deplorable crime scene. But she’s willing to go farther, to do more than before, tonight just proves that, and _that_ is what concerns him the most. He knows his limits, how far he’s willing to go.

How far was she?

***

It was decided – and by decided, Eve means _Bruce_ decided, despite her initial misgivings – that the private investigator would spend some time staying with the Wayne family at the manor, until Bruce was certain her own home was secure, and the thirty-four-year-old woman was firmly removed from Roman Sionis’ unending warpath. They did return to her apartment – Eve eternally grateful that Dr Crane and Edward had long since vacated the premises – to pick up some clothes and essentials, as well as leave a note for any potential clients that decided to wander by that Angel Investigations was currently not taking any more cases for the unforeseeable future whilst she’s on a ‘break’.  There was no sign of the men that supposedly came to her apartment to make a second attempt on her life, something Eve was thankful for. However Edward dealt with them, she did not want to know. For once in her life, she was content to stay in the dark.

With Rebecca living in the floor above, the detective obviously had to inform her companion of her current living arrangements. She omitted the part where she was residing with a family of vigilantes in a lush mansion for her friend’s own safety, but did call Jim and fill him in on as much of the situation as Bec is privy to, the Commissioner assigning a police detail to the blonde psychiatrist, a sight that her co-workers at Arkham Asylum were apparently familiar with.

It’s seven in the morning now, the delectable, enticing scent of bacon, eggs and waffles permeating the air as Eve pads down the ornate manor hallway barefoot, having only woken up fifteen minutes prior. Navigating the labyrinth of halls and rooms was no easy task, but the investigator soon learned to simply follow her nose, the sounds of low, lethargic chatter mumbling down the hall the closer she got to the dining room. Before entering the room, Eve feels a buzz from the cellular device held in her right hand, and upon sleepily lifting it to read the incoming message, she smiles.

 _Pure luck that meddling buffoon of ‘hero’ intervened last night. Ultimately, however, the hairless ape is partially the reason why Crane now owes me $60 after my fear-obsessed crony naively bet against your survival odds, so I shall hand the blundering Blüdhaven vigilante this one._ – E. Nygma

Eve softly chuckles at Ed’s evident distaste at handing anything even _vaguely_ perceived as a compliment to Nightwing.

 _I suggest you steer clear of my abode for the unforeseeable future. It will likely be bugged, if I know anything about the Dark Knight by now, it’s that he has a penchant for such a thing._ – E. Winter

Pocketing the device in her long grey house cardigan, the Southerner hugs the item of clothing tighter around her, covering her cotton pyjama shorts and thin long sleeve as she tiptoes into the dining room, quirking an eyebrow at the entertaining scene.

Mr Wayne is more than content as he peacefully reads the morning paper at the head of the table, his eldest son Richard on his right, flinging a piece of bacon at a very disgruntled Timothy who hasn’t even touched his breakfast yet, but instead is clinging to a cup of coffee like his very life depends on it, short hair sticking up from every end. Eve begins to question if the young teen is even awake, eyes so dreary, body so still – even when the bacon slaps against the side of his face – but receives her answer when he simply picks up the offending piece of meat, biting into it with his eyes still closed.

“Ah Miss Winter, I was hoping you’d be up. Didn’t want your breakfast to go cold.”

Craning her head to the left, Eve gently beams at the butler, Alfred Pennyworth, whom she had the pleasure to meet last night. Something about the elder gentlemen put the younger woman at complete and utter ease, Mr Pennyworth emanating this comforting, familial glow. Eve liked him immediately.

“How could I possibly sleep a moment longer with the absolutely heavenly scent of your cooking taunting me all the way from my bedroom, Mr Pennyworth?” Eve playfully gushes, honest in spirit.

 “Please, Alfred is just fine my dear,” the butler politely insists, nodding his head cordially. “Delightful to hear that someone in this household appreciates my cooking, however.”

“ _I_ appreciate it Alfred,” Dick happily pipes in, his own raven hair in a much better condition than that of his younger adoptive brother’s, but still mildly dishevelled as he chomps down on a forkful of eggs. “Ish my favorite breakfasht food afterall.”

“Ah yes Master Richard, you’ll forgive me if your endeavours to use your breakfast as a projectile against Master Timothy convinced me otherwise,” Alfred wryly responds, the evident familial quip ever so politely delivered.

The Blüdhaven defender fails at hiding his carefree smile at the rebuttal, the young third Robin across from him finally lifting his lids more than halfway open, regarding his elder brother in a groggy, perplexed manner. “Hm?”

“Everyone knows Tim doesn’t really wake up until his morning cup of tea _after_ his morning cup of coffee,” Dicks turns to the North Carolinian to explain, Eve thoroughly amused as she takes a seat at the dining table next to her saviour from last night. “I would like to say that’s what happens when you go out crime fighting the night before a World History AP exam, and then study until five in the morning, but even during the holidays with no school work to study or complete, Timbers here somehow manages to find a way to stay up to the early hours of the next day.”

“Balancing school life and vigilantism I can imagine is no easy task,” Eve sympathises, sending a gentle look towards the Boy Wonder. “At least you’re in your last year of school though, yes? Something to look forward to.”

“Mm,” is the extent of a response Eve manages to coax out of the teen, an imperceptible inclination of the head in what she believes is his attempt at a nod tagged on not too long after.

“That’s about as much as you’re going to get out of him for the next twenty minutes,” Bruce finally chimes in, neatly folding the newspaper in hand and laying it by him. He hadn’t truly been reading it, not since she wandered into the room at least.

Already immaculately dressed in one of the finest suits Eve has ever seen with her own two eyes, the private investigator realises that each time she has encountered him, the billionaire’s possessed a distinct need to always wear a mask. Whether it be as the Dark Knight or as Bruce Wayne, his identity always places him at the pinnacle of power in a room, a likely reason why wearing such a mask is perceived as a necessity for the man. As the Batman, he enforces it to strike fear into the felons of the city, as Bruce Wayne, he employs it as a means for others to recognise his position of authority in a corporate empire. Both are effective and well put together. She had only ever met Mr Wayne once without the mask, and despite that, she feels profoundly odd now, not uncomfortable but somewhere vaguely on that spectrum. The raven haired woman has seen Batman, as well as Bruce Wayne, but now? Now he isn’t just a severe vigilante, or a playboy billionaire. He has shifted somewhere between the Dark Knight and Bruce Wayne, and Eve can’t decide if she’s sat before Batman without the mask, or Bruce Wayne the covert super hero.

Nonetheless, Mr Wayne regards her politely, the faintest of smiles tugging at a single corner of his lips, acting as if this new development in their relationship didn’t just unfold very early that morning. The faintest of crow’s feet sit at the corner of his eyes, the near indiscernible little age lines perfectly placed around his face, so faint you wouldn’t notice unless you studied the man’s face long enough. Depending on the placement of age lines, one can generally decipher what birthed them. Bruce Wayne’s skin is quite clear, a testament to whatever products he uses as well as the stern expression that is his resting face. Happy people, people who laugh and joke and live without a care in the world, often have age lines in the corner of their eyes and marionette lines near the mouth. Constant frowning, as well as a lack of sleep, increases the chance of forehead wrinkles, for a lack of sleep results in less moisturization to the skin, lack of collagen production, and inflammation. These particular age lines marginally more palpable than any other on Mr Wayne’s face. Overall though, people who often refrain from abundantly physically expressing themselves, tend to develop age lines a lot later in life – this isn’t counting those with stellar skin genes, of course.

That simple, little titbit of information already gives Eve a very good idea of the kind of man Bruce Wayne truly is, now that they have upgraded from formal allies-acquaintances into something else, because despite his plethora of money, it’s clear to see he hasn’t had anything done, and his parents had begun developing age lines earlier in life than he, so it is not a case of genetics. Stress, perhaps, contributes to very light lines that _are_ there when one looks close enough, but overall, the Wayne Enterprises CEO has a very clear face.

Eve can tell, as a result of it, that even outside of his vigilante persona, amongst those he cares about, that Bruce Wayne is a very reserved, distrustful, emotionally closed off man who has not experienced a lot of joy in life. He has been dealt joyous moments, yes, but not in spades. And that, that saddens Evangeline Winter.

Clasping his hands together as he rests his elbows lightly on the dinner table, Bruce’s thoughtful inquiry pulls the investigator from her thoughts “How’s your head and lip?”

“As well as they can be after a night like last night,” Eve honestly answers, smiling her thanks at Alfred as elder gentleman kindly places a plate of bacon, eggs and a couple waffles before her. “The Tylenol this morning helped, so thank you for that.”

“Tylenol can be a lifesaver after some particularly trying nights,” Dick chimes in, empathetically regarding Eve. “Plus, the looks on the faces of the store clerks when we walk in, full hero attire, is pretty priceless. Did you know some of them have even started giving me discounts in Blüdhaven? Fantastic I tell you.”

“Perhaps you should consider branching out, seeing if those discounts extend to a cup of coffee in twenty-four hour cafes. A few of the clients I’ve had have been kind enough to give me specials for furniture, lunch, clothes, legal advice and other commodities and services after I’ve helped them in the past,” Eve suggests, starting off the suggestion playfully but ending on a more sincere note.

The Blüdhaven defender nods introspectively. “Huh, that _does_ sound nice. Maybe I can get myself a nice nurse, would save having to patch myself up after a rough night.”

“Or you could return to Gotham, where Alfred and I can help with that.” The remark made by the billionaire is said so casually, that one would believe it to be an innocent enough suggestion. Eve, however, grows perplexed at the immediate drop in the mood, a palpable tension seizing the air tightly enough that even Timothy Drake’s eyes open a little more, glancing warily between his adoptive father and brother.

Dick Grayson, a young man that has been spritely, charismatic and light-hearted for nearly the entirety that Eve has come to know him thus far, sours at the invitation, not vehemently, but almost disappointed. The light clink of the cutlery being placed down as he sighs, as if having gone over this conversation a million times before, suggests that perhaps this _is_ a conversation that’s been had several times over, Dick warning “You know why I won’t, B.”

“We work well together—”

“ _Work together?_ Is that what it is? Because I seem to remember always having to do things _your_ way,” Dick cuts off his adoptive dad, a sliver of ice coating his usually warm tone.

For once, Eve finds her tongue tied, not entirely sure what to do. Whilst she ordinarily prides herself on being able to deescalate tense situations, this isn’t an _ordinary_ situation. This is an unresolved discord between family, and despite the fact that Dick and Bruce have exhibited nothing but civility between one another thus far, it’s apparent that it’s a disagreement that still yet lurks in the recesses of their minds like an overbearing shadow, casting disunity over their relationship. The PI surmises that the first Boy Wonder spending the night in the manor last night must have been a rarity, a consequence of the fracture between Bruce and Dick, made evident by the conversation now as well as their actual breakfast. Normally, Eve assumes that to remain in the impeccable shape the three men are in, they would likely have protein filled meals, all abundantly healthy and rich in nutrients. Now the less healthy plate of food before her could be a result of her current residency here, for when one has a guest staying over, the host generally prefers to cook a nicer breakfast. But, judging by the young Grayson’s earlier remark of the bacon, eggs and waffles being his favourite breakfast food, the North Carolinian speculates that perhaps Mr Pennyworth grew excited upon hearing Mr Grayson would be joining them for breakfast that morning, and elected to cook the twenty-three-year old’s favourite meal.

Not believing it to be her place, Eve opts to remain on the sidelines for this one, exchanging a glance with a still remarkably fatigued Timothy Drake, who very much looks the part of a disgruntled brother caught amongst the throes of a family domestic.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Mr Pennyworth courteously disrupts the tense exchange, garnering all eyes on the butler immediately. “Perhaps, this is a discussion to be had another time, Masters Bruce and Grayson, when we are not graced with the presence of considerate guest.”

Dick at least has the courtesy to wince apologetically, Bruce dropping his gaze along with the subject. Both mutter and apology to the butler, the billionaire instead concentrating his stern gaze on said considerate guest. “Alfred’s right, I’m sure a family disagreement is the last thing your concussion needs Eve. One headache is enough I’m sure.”

“It’s quite alright, it’s not like I’ve never had a family domestic Bruce,” Eve endeavours to assure the vigilantes at the table, casting a gentle look their way as she cuts off a little bacon. “I’m a private investigator with a predilection for helping people and a distaste for violence, whilst my brother is a mercenary with a predilection for violence and a distaste for helping people, discounting me and those that pay him of course. I love him nonetheless, but we’ve had our fair share of… differences.”

“The Black Dog,” Bruce hums, expression inscrutable. “I’m aware.”

“Black Dog legends are common all over the world. You find Black Dog myths in Siberia, North America, Europe, the British Isles and all over Asia,” Timothy mutters his first full sentence all morning, startling everyone as he yawns wearily over the rim of what now looks to be a cup of tea, coffee mug long since drained. “They’re a nocturnal spectre, and its appearance was usually regarded as an omen of death in the old myths. Your brother chose a fitting moniker.”

“The Black Dogs of myth were often associated with electrical storms, crossroads, places of execution and ancient pathways,” Eve dazedly proclaims, as if staring off into a distant memory. “Did you know my brother was born in a storm? Twice, actually, if you count the night Nathaniel Winter died and the Black Dog was born.”

None bar the two Winter siblings know what happened the night Nathaniel Winter received his powers. Not because the elder Winter desired the origin story to remain a secret, but simply because Nathaniel Winter has no one to tell it to. No friends, besides his wolves. No family, besides his sister. Their parents weren’t included in that circle; they never really had been.

Eve has never agreed with what her brother does, but has never shunned him for it either. When others spoke unkindly of his wrongdoings, she could not find it in herself to disagree, to defend the Black Dog. Nathaniel Winter she will _always_ defend, he is family, but the Black Dog killed. The Black Dog was against everything she stood for. And yet, here she is, sat at the table of Gotham’s most fearsome, skilled and dangerous vigilantes, and Eve can’t help herself. Unsure whether she’s defending Nathaniel Winter once again, or the Black Dog for the very first time, words unbidden pour from her lips, a story unspoken, a secret without the intent of being one.

“My brother’s childhood was neither kind nor cruel, which makes his motives that much more inscrutable. Goodness can breed heroes, cruelty villains, but absence? What does a lack of something breed? What does nothingness create?

“To this day my own parents are my biggest enigma. They were there, yet they were not. We had parents, true, they’re still alive to this day, but Nate and I never had any kind of connection with them, they didn’t even have a connection with one another. It was like the four of us were ghosts, haunting the same home. The few times they were floating around the house instead of at work or elsewhere, we almost never talked. We weren’t ignored out of hate or spite. Hate is a tangible human emotion that I can understand, but I never understood my parents. They didn’t love each other, or us, but none of us hated one another either. I think they’re the reason why everyone else is as easy to read as a storybook to me. I spent so much time staring at them, attempting to decipher them, to interpret and figure out a blank canvas, that when I took a look at any other person, any other canvas, they were bursting with colours and shapes and pictures, all of which were simple enough to piece together, to understand the meaning behind the art.

“I, at least, had friends in school. People who were kind to me, listened to me, sat with me, spent time with me. My brother did not. He wasn’t bullied, but he didn’t have friends. No one spoke ill of him, but neither did they try to include him in anything. Unlike I, who has an insatiable curiosity to understand and figure out the people around me that goes as far back as I can remember, Nate has had the opposite. He never tried or wanted to understand people, because they never tried or wanted to understand him, his own parents included. The only ones to ever show an interest in him was I, and our dog, Toby.

“Animals are beautiful creatures, my brother always preferred their company to humans. They’re loving and loyal, without question. It’s why he trained to be a Veterinarian after school, and moved on to work as one at a zoo for five years. Didn’t make friends there either, not with any human co-workers anyway. The only person he talked to by this point was me, because I was the only one who tried.

“One day, a little into his fourth year working at the zoo, a pack of wolves was delivered to him. They all carried some disease, not a memorable one, but one that was deadly enough to kill off a few members of the pack. Amongst them was a litter of wolf pups, and whilst Nate was eventually successful in curing the pack, most of the pups died, except three. The plan was to keep the pack at the zoo for another year or so, see if the disease had any plans of returning, or any long term effects, before releasing them back into the wild. Nate had grown attached to them by this point however, the three wolf pups especially, naming one Lucifer for his strangely intense amber eyes, almost red in some lights, one Luna, because she was born blind so her eyes are glazed over white, and Black, the least creative one, but he had a fondness for Harry Potter at the time and I was always the more creative one anyway.

“One day he discovered one of the scientists that worked at the zoo had been testing on animals – including the three black wolves Nate had come to really grow attached to – so naturally, he endeavoured to put a stop to the cruelty. It was late, no one else around, lightning and thunder roared outside like an angry symphony, rain pelting and darting in all directions, caught in the throes of temperamental winds. Nate has always been a large, imposing man, so without a second thought a fight broke out between him and the scientist. The storms caused a blackout in the midst of their altercation, throwing them into darkness. The scientist knew the room better, knew where to strike at him, to shove him. It wasn’t long until Nate was thrown against the cages that held the three wolves, creating a domino effect as the disturbed cages in turn knocked over cabinets of chemicals. All four of them almost died as a result of it, the scientist not bothering to stick around and discover the consequences of his actions. The only reason I found him and the wolves that night was because we were meant to have dinner, and if Nate wasn’t at his flat, then there was only one other place he could’ve been. Naturally, I wanted to take him to a hospital, but he wouldn’t have that. Instead I watched, wary and perplexed, as he demanded I take him and the three wolves back to my place, where they could recover in safety.

“It didn’t take long to uncover his new abilities, a result of the chemicals and storm I’m certain. Now he has night vision, and is capable of making the lights in the room flicker off and stay off. The dark is now his domain. When he’s in dark environments, his senses and reflexes heighten to peak human condition, perhaps even past it. The chemicals and blood samples taken of the wolves mingled in with each other and him, as a result, he can now see through each wolf’s eyes on command as if he were the wolf. He’s not capable of controlling them, not physically, but having four sets of eyes is still no small feat. The wolves themselves now have a prolonged lifespan, about the same lifespan of a human.

“After this entire debacle, Nate took up the mercenary business, not just because of his abilities, but because he wants the chance to rid the world of people like the scientist who did this to him. That’s how it started out, anyway. Over time his distaste for humanity grew, not to hatred, but any semi-heroic notions he fleetingly had after obtaining his abilities fled after seeing the world for the dark place it is. He may not have been abused or hurt or cruelly wronged, like the Ridder, Scarecrow, Two Face, Killer Croc and a number of other Gotham villains were in their ‘origin stories’, and even then a vast abundance of people in this city have had unpleasant childhoods, including the people in this room, but my brother, Nathaniel Winter, the Black Dog mercenary, is not just another one of your city’s villains. He’s more complicated than that.”

“Killing is wrong. That isn’t complicated,” Bruce plainly argues, remaining civil all the while.

“No, I suppose that isn’t complicated,” Eve agrees, steeling her gaze to meet his own. “But heroism and villainy are. Joan of Arc is named one of the greatest heroines in history, leading the French army to victory over the English, but she murdered people to do so, and yet she was canonised as a saint five hundred years later. Alexander the Great was a murderer, mass killer, and megalomaniac, but also enlightened, kind to his friends, and extraordinarily creative and brave. He brought Macedonia to new heights and spread Greek culture across the world, but he destroyed civilizations and cities and brutally suppressed any sort of resistance. Depending who you ask, either could be villain or hero. They both did things to warrant either title, as has my brother, but when someone does something wrong, it would be wrong to forget everything they did right. And my brother _has_ done good things. They don’t excuse his bad deeds, but they do, as I said, make him more complicated.”

A stiff kind of silence settles amongst the members of the room, Timothy Drake and Richard Grayson trading wary, curious glances between one another and the two adults. Eve yet again holds the Dark Knight’s gaze unwaveringly, the fire he spied last night flickering in her hazel depths, fuelling her resolve. Bruce and Eve are both aware of where each other stands; neither like murder, and neither would ever partake in it, but it’s Eve’s willingness to place her feet in the shoes of those who do kill and hurt others in an attempt to understand not just their motives, but _them_ , as people, that sets them apart. She tries to look at the good they’ve done, if they’ve done any, whilst Bruce is more realistic. He first and foremost sees the bad, because that’s his job. He identifies the bad, and delivers justice for it.

“And what of justice? You don’t believe your brother should answer for his crimes?” The Dark Knight’s question is not heated or aggressive, nor is it a continuation of his interrogation. This time, it’s a question asked out of pure curiosity. Bruce knows where her morals lie, her ethics, but her opinion on the law and justice has thus far been vague, and he wants to know where her opinions lie in _that_ regard.

“I think that he should answer for his crimes, but I don’t know who should hold the right to determine what ‘justice’ my brother deserves. In this city you can _buy_ justice for crimes that don’t exist, it’s happened often enough. Crime families setting an innocent up, buying the judge and jury, and sending them off to a prison they very well may be killed or raped in. I don’t believe in the set parameters of justice, but I like the idea of it. Unfortunately, the idea of it is simply too different to what it actually is these days.”

“So what is justice these days?” Dick asks, captivated by the conversation at hand.

Evangeline Winter shrugs, a sad smile pulling at her lips. “Justice is what we get when the decision is in our favour.”

***

 _The Count of Monte Cristo_ by Alexandre Dumas rests peacefully in the lap of Evangeline Winter, the detective comfortably curled up in the large cosy armchair of the Wayne manor library. Being restricted to the confines of the mansion like a child may have perturbed many others in her position, or made them restless, but after Mr Pennyworth overheard her make a passing comment to Tim about the enjoyment she finds in a moment of peace with a good book, the butler was kind enough to escort her to the home library that resides in the East wing of the manor. A little over an hour has since passed, Richard Grayson having matters to attend to whilst he’s in Gotham, Timothy Drake currently at school, Alfred Pennyworth attending to a grocery shop, and Bruce Wayne lurking somewhere within the manor, preparing to leave for his day job Eve imagines. An imagining that is confirmed when the light tap of pricey shoes against timber flooring grows near, the North Carolinian glancing up at the suit-clad billionaire standing before the armchair.

“I’ve got business to take care of at Wayne Enterprises, but if you need anything, Alfred will be back within the hour, and my phone is always on,” Mr Wayne informs the PI. After breakfast the crime fighter had given Eve his personal phone number to contact, this one not strictly set for emergencies like his vigilante number. Something about the gesture seemed oddly intimate to Eve, despite her being more than aware that trading numbers with friends is an entirely normal thing to do. With Bruce however, it didn’t _feel_ as simple as that. Being the closed off man he is, the gesture of bestowing Eve with that direct line of contact – one she can take liberty of at any moment, even to ask questions as banal as how his day has been – feels like a larger gesture coming from him than it would anyone else. A thought she seemingly shares with the Blüdhaven vigilante, if Dick Grayson’s raised brow at the time was any indication.

Folding the novel to a close, bookmark saving her page, Eve uncurls her feet from underneath her, delicately placing them on the cool timber floors as she rises to a stand, all the while sparing the man before her a content look. “I’m sure there are a million and one ways to entertain myself in a house as large as this; wouldn’t wish to be more of a hindrance than I already am.”

“If you were a hindrance, I wouldn’t have offered,” Bruce sincerely disagrees, the Dark Knight’s version of a comforting smile gently playing the corners of his mouth.

Eve smiles back, tenderly, arms crossed over her middle. “I realised I never thanked you last night. After breakfast, once you had left, I remembered my manners and managed to thank Dick, but I never thanked you. So, thank you, Bruce, for allowing me to stay in your home and for looking out for me.”

Bruce Wayne nods once in acknowledgement of the gratitude, expression now poker-faced once again, Eve unsure why it would be, until the words come tumbling from his mouth. “I ignored you for three months, believing it would best if you remained distanced from me and the more notorious criminal elements in this city after Salvatore Maroni’s fall, only to next see you passed out in the arms of my first ward, two unsuccessful attempts on your life committed in one night. By this point, I think it would be best that I keep you close, instead of pushing you further away.”

Try as she might, Eve is unsure if she is successfully keeping her face from gawking at the man after his admission reaches her ears. _Did… did Bruce Wayne just admit – in his own vague way – that he was **wrong?**_

Though he does not appear uncomfortable, it’s clear to see admissions of fault are not often uttered from the lips of Gotham’s infamous vigilante. Sparing him from the tense moment, Eve doesn’t even think twice about raising her hand and gingerly resting atop his bicep, lightly rubbing his upper arm in an attempt to alleviate the hero, to assure him that Eve holds no grudge or resentment for the negligence.

For the briefest of seconds, Bruce tenses under the abrupt caress, but only as a result of the act being unanticipated. Something about the presence of Evangeline Winter is just… soothing. Merely being around her calms him in a way he’s never experienced before, not with Talia al Ghul, Selina Kyle, Vicki Vale or any of the other women he’s been with in the past. He’s always admired and been drawn to powerful women who can hold their own, whether it be in the form of Selina Kyle’s unpredictable thievery and brazen flirtation, Talia al Ghul’s iron fortitude and impressive fighting skills, or Vicki Vale’s relentless motivation and startling fearlessness. Evangeline Winter possesses that kind of power to a certain degree, but it’s softer. Not weaker, _softer_. And her tender touch, as plain and small as it may be, somehow convinces all the tension in his body to wash away, the man finding peace in the warmth behind her gaze; the cosy, comforting cabin fire on a biting, cold winter night.

“It’s in the past Bruce. Point is; now I’m here, and you’ve shown me kindness. I won’t forget it,” Eve dusts his regret aside, staring up at the billionaire sincerely.

Hesitantly, Bruce’s own hand rises to rest over the petite private investigator’s, giving it the faintest of squeezes from where it sits on his upper arm. Her skin, strikingly smoother and softer than his own, is warm under his palm. No little scars or callouses, unlike the hands of many of the people he knows. Then again, many of the people he knows rely on their hands; they’re fighters, heroes and villains. Evangeline Winter, on the other hand, relies on her head and her heart, and is intelligent enough to manoeuver her way through conflict without having to throw a punch. _Most of the time,_ Bruce amends, recollecting last night.

“Anytime Eve,” Bruce swears, allowing a sincere softness to fleetingly settle over his gaze. It hardly lasts a second before the brooding, stoic mask is back, though gentler than before. Drawing his hand away, and pulling hers with it, the crime fighter nods his head at the North Carolinian, stepping away from their close proximity. “I’ll text Alfred’s number to you should you need it before he returns from the grocer’s. I’ll be back before dinner.”

Nothing else is uttered before his departure bar a brief farewell from Eve, and before long, does the private investigator find herself all alone in the impossible large abode. Fifteen minutes are spent emailing all the photos and footage from a secure email address on the detective’s phone to the reporter Jacqueline Martell, a woman Eve has never met herself, but some time ago Jim had said she works for the Gotham Globe, and is one of the few reports worth trusting with a good heart in this city. Finding the email address was easy enough, the Gotham Globe’s website has the contact addresses for particular reporters listed. The PI was nearly tempted to email the distinguished Vicki Vale instead, reporter for the Gotham Gazette, but if Jim recommended Jacqueline over Vicki it would’ve been for good reason.

Now, twenty minutes later, Evangeline finds herself tempted to peacefully return to her book and patiently await the return of Mr Pennyworth, despite that not being her initial plans. Never did she explicitly promise she would remain indoors _all_ hours of the day, and despite putting all her cases on hold for the unforeseeable future, thus giving her a perfect excuse to remain within the safe confines of the manor, Eve can’t help the restlessness within tickling away at her, knowing the idea formulating in her head could potentially be as bad – even worse – than her brash adventure last night. But, at the current moment in time, after having seen the alarmingly abundant number of weaponry at Sionis’ disposal, it feels wrong for her to sit there and continue reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_ like nothing is wrong.

With the vigilantes preoccupied for the day, Eve _could_ turn to Edward, yet she doesn’t wish to pester him, the enigmatic Prince of Puzzles still undoubtedly recovering from last night’s successful prison break. Jonathan doesn’t like her _nearly_ enough to help, and even then he too is recuperating from his own injuries. Jim is a police commissioner; he has a thousand and one matters to attend to, it would be selfish of her to ask him for his undivided attention for the time being. Nate she is sure would chew her out for her recklessness, and attempt to stop her from going much deeper.

The last few options leave the detective more than a little apprehensive. She _could_ turn to the crime families, but for all Eve knows, they’ve been supporting Sionis’ new black market business. It’s no secret that Oswald Cobblepot’s prices are outrageous, if Roman has been charging even _slightly_ cheaper, the crime families would more than likely favour the temperamental crime boss, regardless of whether they dislike him or not. That leaves Oswald Cobblepot himself, or Harvey Dent, and the answer seems pretty apparent to Eve.

Dent she knows, far better than Cobblepot. She’s never even met the Penguin, but Two Face she has. Two Face, who hates Sionis more than anyone. Two Face, who honoured their deal and didn’t kill her. Two Face, who not only warned her of the danger she’s now in, but assigned men to look out for her, men who saved her _life_ last night. No doubt they’ve reported her missing by now, scouring the streets trying to find her before their boss threatens them with some kind of bodily mutilation or another crude form of punishment. Yes, to the detective, it is overtly apparent who she must seek out now, despite her own misgivings about doing so.

And Eve has a pretty solid idea on where to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx


	17. Hell's Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! Up to date now. Here, have a high-functioning moron that's two for the price of one and constantly argues with himself, and several perspective changes this chapter for your patience. Enjoy!

_“She wore a smile like a loaded gun,”_ ~ Atticus

Jacqueline Martell is having a fairly ordinary day. The familiar buzzing chaos of the Gotham Globe bustles around her, the thirty-five-year-old journalist accustomed to the anarchy that ensues once the media catches wind of vigilante or crime lord drama. Very little has been disclosed in regards to last night’s events, which is no surprise to the South African born journalist. The police likely know about as much as they do at this point in time, despite several media outlets – including her own – grilling them for every last fragment of information known.

An empty dockyard between Blüdhaven and Gotham, and several arrested Black Mask henchmen, courtesy of a vigilante. _Likely Nightwing_ , Jackie surmises, aware of the crime lord’s ongoing history with Blüdhaven’s defender. Every journalist at the Gotham Globe seems to be in a frenzied panic over the affair, not because it’s particularly memorable – cases such as these occur almost nightly in this city – but because it has yet to be reported on. No one, not _one_ media outlet possesses enough information on what transpired last night to write a legible story on it yet. With Roman Sionis inching in closer and closer to Gotham once again, every move he takes is piquing the interest of journalists citywide, waiting for the rogue to establish a foot of power in this city like he did many a year ago. If there’s one thing Jackie has learned over the years she’s resided in this city, it’s that once a person in power falls within the criminal underworld, a power vacuum is left behind. It’s taken three long, frighteningly quiet months, but the thirty-five-year-old can see it playing out now. With Salvatore Maroni gone, and his entire empire with him, the other bosses have begun to make their moves. Perhaps not in the eyes of the media yet, but it’s only a matter of time, especially with more Black Mask crimes being reported around Gotham.

Pushing aside her meddlesome concerns and filing through her emails rather absent-mindedly, blocking out the humming drone of the office around her, a puzzled knot abruptly forms between the brows on Jackie’s deep caramel coloured face. The journalist’s lips part in shock when one distinct email sticks out like a sore thumb, the name of the sender attached immediately striking a cautious yet intrigued nerve within her.

_From: Evangeline Winter_

All Jackie can do is stare at the name blankly for a couple minutes, jumbled thoughts tossing and turning and flitting about her head like leaves in the winds of a storm. A million questions begin to press against the journalist’s brain already, and Jacqueline hasn’t even _opened_ the damn thing yet.

Evangeline Winter is Gotham city’s newest big player, the plain Southerner having seemingly come out of nowhere and wiped out one of the longest standing, most powerful crime families in Gotham’s history. The Maroni crime family was born when Gotham was born; the only other families that hold the privilege of saying the same being the Falcone crime family and the illustrious socialites, the Waynes. And in one fell swoop, rather like the Godfather, Evangeline Winter, private investigator of Angel Investigations, struck the deep-rooted mafia family clean off the board, all in _one_ night. Being one of the Gotham Globe’s more respected journalists, Jackie was even assigned to head the story, running a small team of editors, photographers and other journalists to dig up as much information as possible on the milestone in Gotham history. Her own two daughters, six-year-old Kaya and two-year-old Lilah, thought the detective a hero, vaguely understanding that Maroni is a horrid man, and that Evangeline Winter is the one responsible for his capture.

Miss Winter was admittedly fairly adept in avoiding the media, managing to dodge interviews and questions thrown her way for weeks. Only the photographers bore any fruit in regards to the PI, snapping a couple photos of her around the GCPD precinct and elsewhere. So for Jackie to all of a sudden, unprompted and without any form of communication or provocation, to find an email from the obscure private investigator in her inbox, having never even _met_ the woman, simultaneously excites and puts her on edge. Unable to contain her curiosity bursting at the seams, Jacqueline hovers over the email and opens the message with a firm _click_ against the mouse.

Eyes wide, slack jaw, breath snatched. The buzzing chaos that once ensued around her has now found home in her own head. Photos, videos, _evidence_. A familiar dockyard, yet not empty. Far from it. Nightwing. Corbin Graves. Militia level weaponry. Then a plea, written, tagged at the bottom of the email.

_I heard you have a good heart, uncorrupted, unbought. Show me._

_Sincerely,_

_Evangeline Winter_

Show her, Jacqueline Martell shall.

***

Nervously nibbling on nails; a habit Rebecca Daniels is aware she should cease. Though, the psychiatrist reasons, it is better than her old smoking habit. Three months since she moved to Gotham. Two months of working at Arkham Asylum. A plethora of valid excuses to smoke, and yet instead, Bec has found herself three months cigarette-free. Humorous, how the world works.

The same day that Dr Daniels finds herself receiving her first colourful Gotham character as a patient, just so happens to be the day that her best friend decides to play vigilante hero and break into the shipping yard of Roman fucking Sionis, the Black Mask himself. _What the hell was going through her head? ‘Oh yes, let’s provoke the guy who tried to kill me earlier that night. Look at me, I’m Evangeline Winter, Gotham’s smartest private investigator. I can’t even tell a nosey reporter to fuck off, but you bet your ass I can take Roman Sionis down in a fight.’ Fuck’s sake._

Rebecca doesn’t _really_ hold any animosity or annoyance towards her friend’s actions, but the surmounting fear for Angie’s safety and wellbeing is strangling some of the more logical reasonings out of her, even more so now that she hasn’t got a clue where the detective is hiding out. With her very own police detail, courtesy of Commissioner Gordon, Bec can’t just seek the raven haired woman out either. Many a Gotham police officer aren’t bought off, and truly do have their heart in the right place, but not all, and if Bec can’t trust all of them with Eve’s location, then she can’t really trust any of them. The crime bosses and rogues in this city remind her of Lord Varys from Game of Thrones; spiders with eyes and ears everywhere. While not as efficient or far-reaching as the fictional eunuch, it still isn’t worth the risk, not with the Black Mask on a warpath for her friend’s and Two Face’s blood.

Sighing, Bec rubs tired circles into the sides of her temple, attempting to alleviate the headache building there. Glancing down at the closed patient file on her kitchen island counter, the psychiatrist can’t find it in her to read the information, current diagnosis and findings of her new patient Lonnie Machin aka Anarky again, not now, not with the impending danger hung over Evangeline Winter’s head like a guillotine. Glimpsing up, Bec is also unsure whether she can stand the silence that has stifled the room for more than ten minutes now, Nathaniel sat impossibly still at her wooden dining table, the elder Winter sibling quiet since Bec had updated him on everything she knows.

The wolves are nowhere to be seen, which is a relief to the psychiatrist. They’ve always put her on edge, the canines a marginally smaller – but still notably large – eerie reminiscent of their extinct ancestors the direwolves. By default, Bec is often uneasy around her high school companion’s elder brother, but is aware he’s highly unlikely a threat to her. It’s not often they speak, even rarer alone, but they both share a mutual devotion to Evangeline, one that, after many a year, has resulted in them going so far as to label each other friends.

Staring into the brooding, severe expression set on the mercenary’s face, Bec begins to ponder the speculations and thoughts tumbling around the ambiguous head of the Black Dog, Nate never one to giveaway an inkling of musings and emotions festering within him. Feeling her gaze on him, the thirty-nine-year-old cranes his head to meet the blonde’s inquisitive scrutiny, as if finally recalling her presence in the room with him. “She’ll be with them.”

The shattering of silence startles her, the Australian stumbling over her words for a moment. “What?”

Nate’s heavy torso slowly heaves up and down, the first indication of life besides him finally meeting her stare for the first time in ten minutes. An act to maintain control, Bec presumes. “Nightwing was the last person with her, therefore she’ll be with them. _Him_.”

 Rebecca has a pretty good idea who ‘him’ is, and it’s not Nightwing. “Maybe. We don’t know. Either way she’s in danger. Less so if she _is_ with a bunch of vigilantes, but we frankly don’t know that. You… you’ve been with Don Falcone the past few months, yeah? Has he made any mentions of Sionis? That you can tell me, anyway,” Bec is quick to add on at the end, not wanting to push her luck. The last thing the blonde wants is to get entangled in this bloody, deplorable web of crime, but with Angie MIA, the psychiatrist can’t just ignore the threats against her friend’s life. Especially not when she has a potential fountain of information sitting at her dining table.

The mercenary’s chest rises again, falling haltingly. Tone is tempered, hushed, yet daunting, as always. “Carmine has been squabbling with Markovic and O’Reilly. They all have. Empty territory, a result of a fallen kingdom. Unclaimed resources. New allegiances. Sionis has been fuelling the fire. Arming them all against each other. They’ve been quiet, didn’t want Eva on their tails. _I_ didn’t want Eva on their tails. She’s lucky she got out unscathed last time.”

The headache blooming in Bec’s head makes itself known again, the blonde groaning, chafed. “So they never intended to keep their side of that stupid deal they made her go to three months ago? Christ Nate; you had to have known she’d find out eventually? It’s _Eve_ we’re talking about here. She knows shit about people they sometimes don’t even know about themselves. She probably knows by now. God I hope she doesn’t act recklessly again. If last night is how she responded to Sionis alone, then I don’t even want to _think_ about what she’ll try to pull against the other crime families that went back on their word.”

“Dent hasn’t.”

Bec blinks blankly at the mercenary, allowing a pause to sit between them for a beat. “I’m sorry, what? Dent as in Two Face?”

Nate nods once sharply, staring straight ahead, not meeting her gaze. “He knows Sionis has been trying to get a foothold back in Gotham. He knows Markovic, Falcone and O’Reilly have been arguing. That’s it. Roman would never sell anything to Dent. Dent would never buy anything from Roman. He doesn’t know Roman has even been selling weaponry. Probably assumed Cobblepot was behind it. Two Face hasn’t been feuding though. Subtlety isn’t his strong suit. If he’s fighting, Gotham would know.”

“Then he’s the smartest bastard out of all of them,” Bec mutters, a thousand miles away in thought. “Not uncommon for someone with such a high functioning case of dissociative identity disorder. If the identities are cooperative enough, you’re looking at two synergetic personalities and their respective opinions, thought processes and attitudes collaborating to determine an agreed upon, premeditated course of action. In this case, his course of action has been inaction. The crime families have undoubtedly lost the very little established trust they had with the Angie after making their deal, but if what Angie said about last night is true – that Two Face henchmen saved her life – then that combined with Dent keeping his side of the deal would’ve only strengthened the small amount of trust she placed in him. He’s trying to make an ally out of her, or use her for his own means, that’s the only plausible explanation. There’s no way he’d sit out of a pissing contest with Black Mask otherwise. The mobsters of this city just _love_ showcasing their power with over the top acts of violence.”

The idea of approaching her co-worker, Dr Sarah Cassidy, flits through Bec’s mind. She is, after all, the dual-themed rogue’s doctor on the occasion that the con is incarcerated at Arkham. Whilst Rebecca would never ask the elder psychiatrist questions that would infringe on patient confidentiality, the Australian _could_ ask for Dr Cassidy’s informed opinion on the matter, and what Two Face’s worrisome fascination with Angie could mean. Otherwise, there isn’t much else the blonde can ruminate of that could help her high school companion at this point in time, and whilst Rebecca would love nothing more than to just wait out the storm, she recognises that the eye of it is often times the safest place.

The startling skid of chair against timber flooring snatches Bec away from her tempestuous thoughts, blue eyes finding the mercenary’s brown as the imposing wall of muscle rises to a stand. Without so much as a word of explanation, the North Carolinian patiently strides away and down the hall, towards the front door, leaving the psychiatrist scrambling inelegantly after him.

“Feel like sharing where you’re going with the rest of the class?” Bec hollers, slowing down to a persistent powerwalk once she reaches the hall, addressing her question to the mercenary’s back.

With a hand poised over the front door’s knob, Nathaniel hardly pauses for a moment as the Australian comes to a halt a few feet behind him, turning the handle and stepping soundlessly through the door. Before bringing it to a close behind him, the eldest Winter sibling finally spares her a look, expression as hard as stone, and as vague as mist. “I’m going to talk with the people who have my sister.”

One blonde-brown eyebrow arches in disbelief at the statement, Rebecca Daniels crossing her arms sceptically. “You’ll be lucky if they don’t apprehend you on the spot. To them, you’re no different from Deadshot, Deathroke and all those other yahoos that were hired to try and kill the Bat nine years ago, regardless of whether you’re the brother of ‘Gotham’s Guardian Angel’ or not. What do you even plan to do?”

“I told you,” Nate evenly repeats, tone barely louder than a whisper. “Talk.”

_Click_.

The door is shut ever so gently, impressive for a man of his strength and size. All the lights within Rebecca’s apartment flicker ominously in time with the departure, as if farewelling the mercenary themselves.  Whatever Nathaniel Winter’s definition of ‘talk’ may be, the blonde psychiatrist can’t imagine it holds the same meaning as hers.

_These fucking Winters,_ the blonde psychiatrist internally grumbles at the siblings, huffing a stray strand of hair from her vision. Ambling back into the kitchen, the Australian takes another glimpse at her new patient’s file, stifling all other concerns for the time being, and flicks it open.

***

**_HELL’S GATE WASTE DISPOSAL & LEGAL SERVICES_ **

_Two Face **does** seem to possess the morbid, profane sense of humour required to devise a business and title as such, I suppose,_ Eve amusedly notes, stood outside the modest sized building as the light hum of Gotham street life drones around her. As a result of the building being positioned on the edge of the Narrows – Gotham’s most crime ridden suburb – no abundance of people flit around her, not nearly as many as the CBD at least. It may not be a complete ghost town, but undisturbed enough that the placement of the establishment can be considered a clever one; not in a lively enough hubbub to draw the curious eye, but in a secluded enough part of town that it attracts the intended sets of eyes.

The PI identifies the humour behind the business title; a reference to the legal system and garbage in this city being one and the same. Only one mobster in this city is acquainted well enough with the law to conceive such a sardonic enterprise. The indecision in regards to selecting what market the business is aimed at is also remarkably _them_. The skull logo positioned in a circle with the half black, half white back drop, and establishment title around it is merely more of a giveaway by this point, the fact that the ‘legal services’ section of the enterprise has represented many a Gotham rogue in the past – including, of course, Harvey Dent himself – only solidifying Eve’s suspicions. Edward had once mentioned that Hell’s Gate would be her best bet in seeking out the ex-DA, at the time, however, the detective only thought the firm would put her in touch with the Gotham rogue, or something else of the like. Now, it’s starkly apparent to Eve that no, Dent highly likely _owns_ the dual business, or in some measure had a hand in its formation.

Eve held an array of varying expectations before she passed the threshold of the firm of what to expect behind the front doors. Now however, as she blinks unsurely at a vacant black and white lobby, only occupied by two trouble deterring security guards and a chirpy looking blonde receptionist, the detective doesn’t think that any of her presumed expectations were so… ordinary.

_Clack clack click clack click click clack clack._

Evidently, the walls and doors are soundproofed, for the raven haired woman is unable to hear a single decibel of sound outside, as if this lobby is an entirely separate plane of existence, a unique world that is so eerily silent, all Eve can hear is the jarringly loud sound of finger nails against a keyboard. The well put together receptionist on the other side of the room hasn’t even taken note of the North Carolinian yet, still engrossed by whatever is on her computer screen, but the two flunkies have had their sharp eyes locked on her since she poked her head through the front doors, the unblinking stares marginally unsettling the PI. _Fit for their profession then, at least. Job well done._

The private investigator’s heeled ankle boots are deafening as they _click_ against the immaculately clean white tiled floors, drawing her closer and closer to the front desk. By the time she reaches her destination, it feels as if the hired muscle are breathing down her neck, despite the fact that they’re respectively stood nine feet away on either side of her.

Delicately clasping her hands and resting them atop the high rising desk, Evangeline Winter lightly clears her throat, politely regarding the impeccably dressed blonde who still has yet to pay the detective any mind. “Good morning. Apologies for interrupting, but I’m here to—”

“Our wastage and our legal services are both fully booked for the time being. I apologise for the inconvenience, but please feel free to take a business card and call us at a future date. Have a lovely a day.”

And then, it was as if Eve didn’t exist once again. Amidst the receptionist’s courteous addressing towards her, emerald eyes locked with her hazel ones, full undivided attention directed solely at her only to be succeeded by complete neglect afterwards. Surely, she has done nothing to offend the blonde, the North Carolinian frowns. Perhaps, it is the way she is dressed? The detective was in a rush to scramble clothes together very early that morning, when the Dark Knight escorted her back home briefly to grab what she required, and as a result not many of her nicer, classier clothes were brought to the manor with her. Personally, she doesn’t believe there to be anything wrong with her thin-fabric stonewashed skinny jeans and off the shoulder cream midriff. The neckline of the top is fairly respectable, and it’s not like it cuts off directly under her breasts.

_Though it is, overall, a form fitting outfit,_ Eve internally acknowledges. _But it’s light and breezy, and my **Lord** it is hot today, too hot for my coat. I had heard of the severity of a Gotham summer, yet it’s only May. Perhaps I should invest in more deodorant and perfume in the upcoming months._

Dread for the upcoming season aside, the PI gently tucks a strand of her midnight coloured hair behind her ear, the ends of the ebony tresses long enough to gently tickle the tops of her bare shoulder blades now. “Whilst I’m sure your wastage and legal services _are_ fully booked, I’m not here for those particular services.”

No physical change occurs; the guards still as immovable and daunting as before, the receptionist still occupied by her computer, but the very atmosphere thickens once the words drop, as if Two Face had also hired the air to strangle the lungs and windpipe of anyone that wandered in here and meant him harm. The presentable looking woman before her does briefly turn her attention back to Eve however, only to faux kindly inform her “Hell’s Gate Waste Disposal and Legal Services _only_ specialise in waste disposal and legal services. Both of which are—”

“Fully booked yes yes, I gathered,” the detective sighs, trying to ignore how the guards are now closer to her than they were before. “If you could just let your employer know I stopped by—”

“My employer is a busy man, and can offer no promises that he will respond any time soon, but if it offers you comfort, I shall.” Ever so daintily, the blonde uncaps a pen and pulls towards her a post it note, the writing tool hovering over the paper as she spares Eve another patient glance. “Name please?”

Eve doubts Harvey or Two Face would ever really hear of her visitation if she were any other person who meandered in off the streets, but, with a little luck, perhaps the blonde or the guards will recognise her name, and honestly pass on the message. With that thought in mind, the private investigator warmly smiles at the lady before her, answering “Evangeline Winter.”

Another silence befalls the room, even heavier and more suffocating than before. The pen makes no move to glide across the paper, Eve’s response a pickaxe that has successfully created a crack in the receptionist’s façade. The off-putting, intimidating ambience surrounding the henchmen before now blanch into uncertainty, the large walls of muscle moving for the first time since Eve ambled through the front doors, shuffling around on the spot uncomfortably. Even the blonde seems several times tenser than before, lips tightly pursed with the tiniest of knots furrowing between her perfectly shaped and filled in brows, contained panic playing across her strained expression. A most unexpected response in Eve’s opinion. Mild surprise or disbelief is what the PI predicted, but not this, not—

_Fear?_

Not the kind of fear that Dr Crane instils in his ‘patients’, nor the kind of fear the Dark Knight strikes into the hearts of Gotham’s offending lawbreakers. It’s not all-consuming or even all that debilitating. Rather, it is the kind that one experiences when recalling a threat, a fear that is not imminently dangerous, but aware of potential peril in the subsequent hours or days or weeks to come. It’s not a powerful fear, but a warning fear. An uncomfortable gun pressed to your back, without the faintest idea of when it may be fired, if it’s fired at all, and even if it is, is there even any ammunition in the chamber. And right now, the three other people in the room with Eve appear as if they are experiencing precisely that; a game of Russian roulette with fear.

Eve doesn’t like it.

_Fear_ is not what she works with, nor will she ever. She doesn’t want to be remembered or thought of in fear, plenty of people in this city are already regarded in such a way. Yet the more she scrutinises the two lackeys and the lady, the more she realises that it’s more likely their _employer_ has uttered some nefarious, depraved promise of harm to them and probably a sizeable amount of his other employees, something that has to do with her.

_“You left an impression on him miss,” the other one with the sharp jaw line and evident Latin American heritage finally speaks up, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but there. “Plus, he considers you his PI, ‘cause of how you two made that deal. So as you can imagine, he won’t be happy that we let that bastard land a hit on you.”_

Eve recalls early last night, one of the two men assigned to her by ex-DA – Dante, if she recollects correctly – and the strain in his tone when he spoke of an unhappy Two Face.  Unhappy, because she still surfaced from the altercation with an injury, no matter how small and easy to overlook the wound is. The fact that she managed to give him and his companion, Kevin, the slip on her way to Sionis’ dockyard afterwards, and has yet to believe anyone is tailing her again, the realisation that Two Face is likely more than unhappy with her and his flunkies’ competence right now, is becoming all too apparent. His three employees positioned around her right now with their respective unsettled reactions to her identity only adding to the comprehension.

“May I see some form of identification, Miss Winter?” The blonde manages to push out, struggling to hold Eve’s gaze as strongly and unyieldingly as before.

“Of course,” Eve complies, retrieving her driver’s license from the wallet in her small shoulder purse and handing it to the woman, who surveys it for a long minute or two before relenting back into the detective’s possession, brusquely nodding her head once at the raven haired private eye.

“If you would like to sit on one of the chairs in the waiting area until my employer is ready you are welcome to,” is the last thing the lady says to her, once again returning to whatever thrilling work awaits her on the desktop screen, leaving Eve mildly surprised at the change of events but not complaining.

Flickering her hazel gaze between the three once more, the North Carolinian leisurely backs away from the front desk and ambles over to one of the numerous empty lounges and takes a slow seat. Briefly checking her phone for any messages, only to find one concerned text from Mr Pennyworth as a result of her messaging him about popping out for the day, Eve returns the device to its place in her purse, patiently awaiting the storm headed her way.

***

Jackson Keller, Michael Donovan and Robert Mulder are Two Face’s most trusted men and confidants. Should something ever happen to the dual themed criminal, Jackson is next in the chain of command within the crime syndicate, followed by Robert and then Michael. For _years_ they’ve worked for the ex-DA, witnessing firsthand the rises and falls in his criminal empire, each having parts to play in serving and advancing their boss through the ranks of the Gotham Underworld. They were the three men to first meet Evangeline Winter in that quaint café three months ago, before Two Face even knew the private eye existed. So it is astounding then, how in three scant months, with only two limited encounters with the North Carolinian, that Evangeline Winter has successfully managed to create such a prominent foothold in their ruthless boss’ morbid intrigue, as well as their _other_ boss’ more levelled, diplomatic one.

Jackson Keller keenly observes the crime lord sat across from him in the backseat of the hummer SUV. Jack may not be as clever or sharp as Rob – the latter gangster often taking charge as if he _were_ second in command, yet never overstepping to the point of it being a mockery of Jack’s authority – but Two Face chose him to be his second in command for a reason. Despite disliking diplomacy, and much preferring a more brutal, unfriendly approach, Harv still understands and – dare he thinks – _appreciates_ Keller’s ability to methodically mediate with other crime lords, information brokers, weapons dealers and all other business associates that Harv holds the displeasure of negotiating with. A prolific and lucrative business delegate as well as an accomplished arbitrator between not only the ex-DA and other easily provoked potential work associates, but between his own bosses’ feuding personalities, Jack has more than once proved his worth to the temperamental mobster, partially responsible for a hefty chunk of the money currently occupying Two Face’s bank account.

Keller isn’t _only_ a peacemaker and deal closer however. No, to achieve second in command to one of the most cutthroat, remorseless sons of bitches in Gotham requires a particular taste for depravity and a penchant for brutality, something the gangster is all too familiar with after having spent eight years operating as a mercenary in a crime syndicate before moving on to work for Two Face. Ten years later, and Jackson Keller is not only richer than he has ever been – perks of working for crazy yet loaded bastard – but holds more power than he ever did as a mercenary. And despite his employer being more than unhinged and ready to take his aggression out on anyone around him, often including his own men, Jack actually _likes_ Two Face, _and_ Harvey Dent. He’d take them over the Joker, Penguin or Black Mask any day.

“Fuckin’ hell. Crazy bitch almost dies, and _then_ she decides that it’s a bright fucking idea to waltz straight onto Roman’s fucking property to get some stupid fucking pictures and some shitty video just to leak to the fucking press. Remind me _why_ you shitheads didn’t even _try_ to dissuade me from investing in this _clearly_ delusional PI that either has a death wish, or a death kink? Because the only other idiots I can think of that would ever pull a stupid fucking stunt like this are Joker or Batman, and the last thing I need is another one of _those_ fuckers walking around Gotham,” Two Face heatedly barks at the three of them after stewing in a bitter, furious silence for the last twenty minutes, an amalgamated result of two irritable developments in the last half hour.

Around thirty minutes ago, the Gotham Globe posted an article online that barely took the trending page five minutes to find. The _full_ article is to be posted tomorrow in the hard copy paper, with more photographic evidence and greater detail of the event, but apparently, after Jack’s employer’s current fascination took off God knows where last night following her near-death experience, Evangeline Winter found herself in a dockyard that, according to Michael Donovan’s police connections, was empty early this morning except for the tied up Black Mask men. Now however, as reported by the Globe’s article, it’s been proven by Miss Winter that the dockyard was _not_ empty, but heavily stocked with militia weaponry, the merchandise of Black Mask’s new black market, said black market another new development to add on top of the list of growing developments, whilst also being on top of the list of reasons why Jackson Keller has an astounding headache.

Face was already pissed that two of his men had lost Winter, and Jack had spent the better part of the last fourteen hours attempting to assuage that ire. He had done a damn good job of it in his opinion too, until the article posted half an hour ago. That article alone gave him several more things to be fuming over, _and then_ , Rob gets a call from Hell’s Gate Waste Disposal & Legal Services, not only confirming the first sighting of Miss Winter in fourteen hours, but informing them that she’s _there_ and requesting to talk to their employer.

There really wasn’t much that Jack could do to mitigate his boss’ temper after that. It doesn’t seem like Harvey has even attempted to ease his more volatile half, all the more reason for Keller to be on edge.

“She appears to have a talent for evadin’ death, despite facin’ it more than once,” Rob cautiously notes aloud, gaze pointed strongly out the window. “Not ‘cause she’s a physically tough broad like Ivy, Catwoman or Harley, but ‘cause she has a brain and a way with words, _and_ she knows how to use ‘em. You were right to invest in her boss, it’s why she’s now come to you instead of Gordon or the Bat.”

Harv derisively snorts, fury still bubbling below the surface. “Roman fucking Sionis has been selling firearms for who the fuck knows how long, and the first time _I_ hear about it is through the goddamn Gotham Globe. Maybe I _should_ hire her instead, clearly gets shit done more than you worthless fuckers.”

Keller slides his gaze over to the strangely silent Michael Donovan, knowing the former street rat ordinarily struggles to not run his mouth ninety percent of the time. Despite Mike’s more talkative nature – a key reason why he has acquired many a friend and information source over the years – the dark skinned gangster also possesses an astute sixth sense when it comes to reading the room, feeling out others’ moods and emotions. A likely reason why Mike has elected to keep his mouth shut thus far, instead deciding to explore the inside of his suit jacket and fish out a silver flask, taking one long sip of whatever alcoholic concoction is inside.

“At least we’ll find out what she knows about Mask now boss,” Rob takes another shot at appeasing his employer, an endeavour long since abandoned by the brunet ex-mercenary attempting to mollify his own migraine. _For a smart man, you sure are pretty fuckin’ stupid Rob,_ Jack groans in his own head, allowing his eyes to flutter shut for a few moments.

“Like how _she_ knew about fucking Sionis’ black market before _I_ did, despite hiring you pieces of shit to do that exact job _for_ me,” the dual themed crime lord snaps, the devilish, feral glint in his eye anything but friendly.

A bitter, stiff silence swallows up the back of the hummer SUV once again after that, Robert Mulder’s attempts at tempering it ceasing as a whole. Wordlessly, Jackson Keller expectantly holds his hand out to Mike sat across from him, and wordlessly in return, Michael Donovan relinquishes the flask to his other boss. Neither man even entertain the possibilities of the turnout that is unavoidable once they meet up with the angel awaiting them at Hell’s Gate, but Jack does know that he’ll need more than a flask and some pain killers to endure it.

***

**_I’m gonna kill him._ **

_Please refrain._

**_Nope, I’m gonna fucking kill him._ **

_I would immensely prefer it if you **didn’t** kill our top man._

**_Fine, I’ll just throw Rob into incoming traffic then. Or force that stupid fucking flask down Mike’s throat. What the fuck ever, I just need to kill someone._ **

_Your proclivity for violence, whilst useful in urgent life-threatening situations, will not help us right now. And they are our men. They do their jobs well Harv._

**_Not fucking well enough! The press, Harvey. The fucking press. I gotta hear about fucking Sionis doing shit behind our backs from a fucking news article!?_ **

_Evangeline’s doing, Harv. The way I see it, she has done us a favour. The police will now be forced to focus more on Roman, and with the media breathing down his neck, every little move he makes will now be scrutinised—_

**_Is it Evangeline now, Harvey? Didn’t realise you were so fucking close to the skirt. Shouldn’t be surprised at this point, considering this is like the hundredth fucking time you’ve defended her. Cut the shit with the ‘favour’ thing too. Every time she’s made a move you’ve claimed it’s been in our fucking favour—_ **

_Because it **has** been in our favour!_ The former district attorney lightly rubs their temple, contemplating asking Mike for a sip from his flask. _Whether she’s meant to or not, disposing of Maroni and forcing the spotlight onto Black Mask is beneficial to us. We need to take advantage of this, and **she** can help._

**_And what makes you think she will?_ **

_Because she’s presently awaiting **our** arrival at **our** business after **our** men saved her last night. You are simply testy because I was right after all; she’s become a valuable asset, one that is yet again overseeing and handling the demise of another inconvenience of ours._

**_Did you just call me testy? Like some petulant fucking child? I am not testy._ **

_Mm, and yet, that is precisely what a testy, petulant child would respond with._

**_Fuck you Harvey._ **

_Likewise Harv._

An additional five or so minutes is all it takes to reach Hell’s Gate, Two Face entirely conspicuous in a noticeably large overcoat with the collar cocked in eighty-four-degree weather, and low tipped hat conveniently masking a good portion of the scarring on his left side, but the walk between the curb and the building is brief. The moment the obscene crime lord is through the front doors, he wastes no time shucking the coat from his shoulders, discarding it along with the irritable hat on one of the several vacant chairs in the lobby – positive one of his lackeys will attend to it – grumbling along the way.

“I swear to whatever fucking God or gods there are, if I have to wear that goddamn heavy coat in eighty-four-degree fucking weather for five paces between a car to the door one more fucking time today, I’m going to skin the person closest to me and use _that_ as a replacement coat. Paranoid pieces of—”

“Ah, how I have missed your profound sophistication and impressionable propriety, my dear Apollo Janus.”

Two Face nearly finds himself the subject of whiplash, an affliction that would’ve been of his own doing, when the benign tone dances around his ears, a tinkling of amusement sprinkled atop the honey lathered words of mild mannered sarcasm. Evangeline Winter, the cause and solution to several of his current complications, stands patiently off to his right several seats down, possessing the _audacity_ to playfully smile at him like they’re even _remotely_ close to friends.

Several snide, less than friendly remarks instantaneously rise up the felon’s throat, yet Harv unexpectedly pauses in selecting one to voice, instead taking the chance to survey the PI he hasn’t had the displeasure to see in three months.

Uncertain as to why, but the first thing he notes is her hair. It’s longer now, just past her shoulders, Winter likely having failed to cut it at all these past months. Midnight tresses that delicately lay atop her breasts and give her an even softer impression that before, the Southerner subsequently appearing more dainty. The shorter hair bestowed her with a sharper ambience, more astute, cunning, despite her tender smiles and words of comfort. Yet now, with the gentler, moderately longer waves – paired with the bizarrely casual, flattering attire – Harv, for the first time, feels as if he’s finally in the presence of Evangeline Winter.

Coat. Guarded, shrewd scrutiny. Short hair. Refinement. Propriety. Perfect manners. Business attire. Official titles. Harv doesn’t see any of it, not a _scrap_. Her essence is still there; that naïve, loathsome sense of morality and good. But it’s almost as if her mask – Gotham’s Guardian Angel, private investigator of Angel Investigations – has been put aside for the moment being. The last time they talked, alone in an alley after a rather tiresome night with the other crime bosses, Two Face detected cracks in that armour of hers, the Joker having frazzled her more than the detective let on. That however, wasn’t by choice. Involuntary. Yet now…

Now the North Carolinian just appears _normal_.

Winter hasn’t come to him calculatedly; this isn’t her moving chess pieces around the board in her grand scheme. Harv doesn’t know the woman or what has transpired in the past twenty-four hours well enough to just assume that whatever happened last night was the reasoning behind this shift, but he’s also not fucking stupid. By protecting her last night, and warning her about this shit hole of a city three months prior, he’s garnered more of her trust quicker than he thought. The revelation is bizarre and pleasing… as well as suspicious.

_Suddenly not so indignant anymore, are we?_ His other half smugly makes a reappearance, souring Two Face’s mood again immediately.

**_So she’s easy on the eyes and is more open to us that I first thought, doesn’t fucking matter. Think I prefer her like this though – not the snark, had enough of that shit already – but the outfit ain’t bad. If it’s any tighter, I won’t need an imagination to guess what it’s like underneath—_ **

_Have I ever told you how unbearably crass and vulgar you are?_

**_I think the list of instances would be shorter if you listed all the times you didn’t tell me ‘how unbearably crass and vulgar’ I am._** Not knowing how he didn’t spot the injury the first time, Harv halts his internal debacle with Harvey, zeroing his attention in on the PI’s busted lip. Instantly, a dark glint enters their eyes. **_That looks considerably fucking worse than what Dante and Kevin described before. Remind me to feed them their own teeth later._**

_I’m almost inclined to agree._

**_Did Golden Boy just agree to ‘tasteless violence’? Oh, I’m definitely in a fucking dream. Between your acquiescence and Winter’s favourable apparel—_ **

_You are worse than a hormonal teenage boy._

**_Remember, Harvey boy. Anything I wanna do, is something you secretly wanna do deep, deep down. My attraction for her, comes from you Mr White fucking Knight. Not so gentlemanly and honourable now, are we?_ **

Upon hearing radio silence from insufferably righteous other half, Harv nearly lets slip a complacent smirk, before remembering the acrimonious mood he was in moments before. Recalling Winter’s words, and how alike the phrasing was to a certain Prince of Puzzles, Two Face glares at the PI, grunting in response “You’ve been spending too much time with Nygma.”

An honest to God _laugh_ slips past Evangeline Winter’s wounded lips, the unfamiliar sound mildly startling Harv. “That did sound a little like Edward, didn’t it? My brother thinks he’s trying to ‘taint’ me as of late, influencing me to partake in less than legal activities. Perhaps it’s working,” the raven hair woman shrugs, arms crossing over her body to hug herself.

**_Is she… nervous?_ **

_Both times we’ve encountered her in the past, you have brazenly threatened her life. Not to mention the fact that you not so delicately shoved her against wall in a dimly lit, empty alley last time. Miss Winter is entitled to a little nerves or fear—_

**_If I wanted her dead, she’d be fucking dead._ **

_Something she is more than likely aware of, and yet, fear and nerves aren’t always logically justifiable. Please play nice, or let me—_

**_I won the coin toss, so don’t fucking ask again._ **

“Sure fucking hope not,” Two Face growls, making his way over to the detective at his own unhurried leisure. “If you ask me one goddamn riddle, I don’t care if I saved you last night, I will—”

“Shoot me? Yes, I gathered. I’m beginning to grow accustomed to your murderous threats Two Face. It would feel unnatural if I didn’t find at least one directed at me each time we convene by this point,” Winter lightly banters despite her nerves, her smile as gentle as always. Whimsical, impish behaviour. Evidently, Evangeline Winter is attempting to stifle her nerves one way or another.

Jack, Rob and Mike simply observe the exchange with wide eyes, even their receptionist – Daisy – and the two hired muscle’s breaths are hitched. The only people in the entire city that get away with addressing their boss in such a bold, familiar way are the crazies that belong to the Rogue’s Gallery. Hell, Two Face has shot his own men point blank for so much as _breathing_ wrong when the crime boss is in a sour mood. To say that this entire exchange is making them feel uncomfortable would be an understatement.

“So, almost dying has not only given you the fucking balls to jump straight into another life or death situation on the same fucking night by pissing off the guy who tried to have you killed, but given you enough guts to think we’re chummy enough for you to speak so fucking brazenly to me,” Two Face snarls, heavily invading Eve’s personal space.

The North Carolinian falters, yet doesn’t step back. In spite of a very trying night, Winter’s resolve has not cracked. Shaken, perhaps, but not broken. If anything, it’s invigorated.

“I am not one of your _employees_ Two Face,” Miss Winter evenly responds, chin tilted high. “I greatly respect and admire your astuteness, legal prowess and sharp judgement in regards to business investments and alliances. You know which particular horses to bet on in which particular races. I have made… mistakes, minor miscalculations during my time in this city. Some more recent than others,” the private investigator pauses, tenderly caressing the healing lump on the back of her head, an act which the dual themed villain follows like a hawk, “but I do know one thing with certainty, if last night proved anything; _I’m_ one of your business investments. Your honesty with me since the beginning, no matter how crude; the various warnings and chances you have bestowed me with since we’ve met; safeguarding my life without my knowledge until it was threatened. All indications of investment. Clever. Manipulative, but clever. Can’t say I’m entirely thrilled to feel more inclined towards you than almost anyone else at this current time, but it’s well earned. I’d be dead if not for you, manipulative or not. So, consider this your investment paying off.”

A hard drive abruptly finds itself between the con and detective, held delicately in Miss Winter’s fingers, evidently an offering of good will after last night on her behalf. “I didn’t give the Gotham Globe all the evidence I have of last night,” she confesses, twiddling the USB. “If too much information about a matter as delicate as this is public knowledge, it _could_ lead to wide spread panic. I am _also_ trying to avoid another crime war anytime soon if I can. I bought this USB this morning and downloaded all of the photos and videos I took last night, some of which won’t be in the papers or on the internet; photos of RPGs, grenade launchers, highly advanced militia armour, dismantled pieces of technology I haven’t the faintest of clues about and more. On top of that, I’ve compiled a document that contains all I know about Sionis, his businesses, operations and my limited knowledge about this new black market of his. There’s also a list of everyone I know for certain that is complicit with his operations. It’s not a large list, but it’s a start. I have reason to believe that the other crime families may also be complicit—”

“They are,” Two Face scowls, not even thinking twice about sharing the intelligence with the PI. “Since Maroni’s been gone, there’s been a power vacuum amongst the crime families. Falcone took it, pissing off the others – myself included – _a lot_. They’ve been fighting like fucking children since. I just assumed that sleazy fucking midget with the tacky umbrella was the one selling them guns, and lying to my face when I asked him about it. Now I know why _he_ was pissy too.”

“And yet you did not involve yourself? Why?” The Southerner regards him analytically, head marginally cocked to the side in perplexity.

The super villain snorts dryly, not so gently plucking the hard drive from her fingers at last and pocketing the device in his black and white blazer, grousing “Been too pissed at Sionis walking around my fucking city. That, and I’m a lot of things – a remorseless murderer, a certified nutcase, a merciless crime boss, and one sadistic son of a bitch – but _I_ _keep my fucking word_. I’d never hear the end of it from Harvey if I didn’t.”

_So either my brother was oblivious to Don Falcone warring with the other families behind my back – unlikely – or, like the over protective elder sibling he is, refused to tell me – much more likely,_ Eve internally sighs, filing that thought away for later.

Pursing her lips, the detective still inspects the fugitive with a pinch of caution, but now, more gentleness has settled behind her eyes. “Let’s say I believe that; why tell me? Granted, I’m doing you a favour now, but if anything, that’s paying off your services last night. Why give information or confirm suspicions to me, someone who has proven what they are capable of accomplishing with enough intel?”

“Because I don’t want you up my ass about it, especially when I didn’t even break the futile fucking deal,” Harv grunts, gaze averted around the room for a moment. “I’ve got enough shit with enough fuckers in this city as it is, and whilst taking you out would potentially be a _safer_ option in the long run, I’m not a fucking coward. You’ve got guts, a brain, connections and know how to use all of them. You could turn on me, but even if you did, I wouldn’t give you the fucking chance. At the moment, however, you’ve shown that you’re capable of buddying up with us ruthless bastards without being a bitch and turning us in – Nygma has made that quite clear – and in all honesty, if it comes down to picking a side – yours, or the other crime families – my money is on you. There are at least a hundred shitheads in this city that can do what they do, but only you can do what you do.”

_I believe that is the nicest thing that you have ever said to anyone ever,_ Harvey praises to his other half, immediately earning something akin to a growl from the grouchy, scarred personality.

**_Shut the fuck up, this is your fucking fault. Making me all soft and shit._ **

Eve’s expression completely moulds into one of warmth, injured lips partially parted from the unexpected compliments. They quickly turn up into the most tender smile Harv believes he has ever seen, quickly making the super villain feel vastly uncomfortable.

**_The fuck is she smiling at me like that for?_ **

_Evangeline recognises a compliment – or several – when she hears one Harv. You’ve flattered her._

**_Christ, I doubt she’s never had a compliment before. Make her fucking stop._ **

Harvey merely laughs in the depths of their shared thoughts, yet doesn’t respond, allowing his less tactful companion to handle the situation.

“I do believe – amongst the customary threats and vulgar language – that you just said something nice to me,” Eve gleefully comments, beam broadening.

Harv’s scowl only intensifies, the con nearly baring his teeth at the smaller woman. “Don’t get fucking used to it. We’re not fucking friends.”

“Oh, how heartbreakingly unfortunate, and I had already made us matching bracelets,” the North Carolinian playfully pouts, suddenly seeming a lot more comfortable around him after one goddamn compliment.

The snickers from his own men are abruptly silenced with one glowering stare, the crime lord turning that piercing glare back onto Miss Winter promptly afterwards. With another snarl, Two Face stalks past her and towards the hall past the receptionist, barking over his shoulder “Fuck’s sake you’re already making me regret this. Just hurry the fuck up and follow me Princess, we’re comparing notes on Sionis before I even think about letting you go. _If_ I fucking let you go.”

Though she supresses the laugh, Eve is unable to veil the lingering smile, turning sharply on her heel and following soon after the rogue, Jackson Keller accompanying her along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


	18. Power is Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaller chapter, but tenseee. Two (three? four?) overprotective bois. Love it.

_“Conflict is inevitable. Combat is optional,”_ ~ Max Lucada

The ever drawling life of Bruce Wayne would perhaps be appealing to most; between the charismatic playboy lifestyle and accomplished, prosperous business prestige, many a civilian would commit any number of felonies to be where Bruce is now. The covert vigilante recognises this, and despite the fact that his less than legal crime fighting lifestyle often takes precedence over his public persona, Mr Wayne nonetheless endeavours to dedicate as much time as he can to his family business. Unfortunately, that does not mean that the thirty-five-year-old has altogether gotten his public persona’s act in shape. Many a time Bruce has slept through a business meeting, been late, and entirely forgotten work functions that demand his presence. He has become more adept juggling the two sides to his life over the years, and rarely commits such unprofessional stunts anymore, but, every so often, the billionaire still finds himself running late to work, or taking an unsuspecting nap through a particularly insipid meeting.

Today, just happens to be one of those days.

Bruce didn’t fall asleep during this board of director’s conference thankfully, but the Caped Crusader may as well have been, for he doesn’t think a single affair raised and discussed is actually stuck in his head. That may have been due to the triviality of the issues voiced, or because his mind has otherwise been preoccupied with more pressing matters.

The Dark Knight hasn’t found himself in a situation this precarious for quite some time. More Gotham players than usual are involved in the core predicament, and yet it isn’t as simple as two, three or even four opposing sides on the playing field. Every one of the culprits involved hold their own agenda close to the chest – of course they do, it’s _Gotham_ – but some agendas clash with those of their own supposed allies.

Roman and Harvey hold one of the longest lasting rivalries the Gotham criminal underworld has seen, and because Roman is the one responsible for the current crisis, between his recent arms dealer business and calculated, petty hits against Harvey, generally, they would be the primary concerns of the Dark Knight Detective. However, arms dealings are Oswald’s playing field, and the Penguin is undoubtedly slighted by Sionis’ new rivalling black market, as well as everyone who has supported his new adversary’s enterprise. The only one who hasn’t is, of course, Harvey, and despite his strained relationship with the Iceberg Lounge’s proprietor, they would unquestionably be together in their present enmity against Roman. As established, Oswald would hold no love for the other crime lords – Falcone, Markovic and O’Reilly – for taking their money elsewhere, but Harvey has made more than a small amount of effort to maintain a healthy relationship with the other mob bosses, and despite their difference of opinion when it comes to Black Mask, he _likely_ and _hopefully_ wouldn’t jeopardise the peace between them.

The situation is, altogether, entangled and messy. And somehow, Evangeline Winter has managed to place herself _right_ in the centre of it all.

Markovic, Falcone and O’Reilly respect her enough to leave her alone, and by no means hold any intentions to provoke her – as far as Bruce is aware – and yet all three have reportedly been dealing with the crime lord who has attempted two hits against her life in _one_ night. Unaware where Harvey currently stands with Miss Winter, the vigilante _assumes_ he holds no ill will, and intends to manipulate her into his favour, if him allocating two men to save Eve’s life last night is anything to go off. It would make sense; Roman Sionis’ number one adversary and the woman he wants dead the most teaming up to take him down, and if the private investigator’s previous association with Edward Nygma is any indication, she likely wouldn’t be above declining aid from a notorious, dangerous criminal.

Despite that, she agreed to stay with _him_.

Admittedly, Miss Winter has attempted to work more with him in the past, but due to Bruce not wanting her to become too entangled in such a perilous, depraved criminal underworld, he either limited her involvement or turned her straight down altogether. By now it’s quite evident that she doesn’t wish to let this life go anytime soon, so the billionaire may as well keep her close, and ensure that she doesn’t steer too far into the lives of his eminent adversaries. Whilst he’s sure she will never take a life, there are far too many other lines she could cross, despite her best intentions.

With these musings buzzing around his head, Bruce distractedly nods at his personal assistant, Rachel, sat at her desk dutifully, on his way to his own office. Ever polite and professional, the brunette smiles back, attentively greeting “Good afternoon Mr Wayne.”

_Afternoon? Is it the afternoon already?_

Rachel spends the better part of a minute catching him up on other matters than require his attention, before Bruce can finally return to his office, not having been in the large workspace that overlooks most of the city since fairly early this morning.

It is with this thought in mind, and the eventual recognition of an unexpected occupant in the room, that the crime fighter takes a second to pause and wonder; how long has the mercenary Nathaniel Winter been awaiting his arrival?

The hot, afternoon, end of spring sun devours every corner of the room in light, the billionaire’s wall of windows behind his desk allowing it to beam down onto every surface in the office. The Dark Knight hasn’t seen the Black Dog in broad daylight before, only at night, in passing shadows and weak, faltering streetlights. The mercenary sits peacefully at Bruce’s desk, in his chair. Dressed casually in a grey button up Henley, a battered black leather jacket and some simple cargo pants, the elder Winter sibling appears out of place in such an opulent work space, and nothing like the murderous lawbreaker he usually is.

Wayne’s eyes drop to the criminal’s chest, where a plain silver cross hangs around his neck, identical to Eve’s. Opposite ends of the moral and legal spectrum, and still, somehow, the Winter siblings hold such an infallible familial bond. The more they talk of one another and the more Bruce appraises them, the more he comprehends just how strong it is.

And yet, as of now, Bruce decides he would _much_ prefer to arrive to his office and instead find the mercenary’s younger, lovelier sibling in his place.

 “Bruce,” Nathaniel prompts the conversation to a start, hushed with large arms drawn together, calloused hands clasped in his lap.

The vigilante silently closes his office door behind him, to make sure Rachel catches nothing of the exchange. “Nathaniel.”

“Been a while,” the mercenary continues, expression blank, and sentences kept short as per usual. The Batman recalls that about him, never having been a man of many words. The Black Dog is a nice change of pace from tiresomely talkative crooks like Nygma, Joker and Harley.

“It has,” Bruce warily continues, not removing his gaze from Eve’s brother. Stepping further into the room at a snail’s pace, the billionaire keeps an air of ease whilst remaining on his toes, offering the mercenary the smallest of empty smiles. “Haven’t been hired to kill me again, I hope.”

“Not this time,” Nathaniel murmurs, yet the deep, baritone words carry clear as day across the room, dark brown eyes almost unblinking in their piercing, intrusive stare, fixed immovably on the Dark Knight. “Eva wouldn’t be too pleased if I did.”

“I imagine not,” the Caped Crusader dryly replies, lips in a thin, tight line. “Eve has a lot on her plate already. Unnecessary complications wouldn’t help her case right now.”

Something in Nathaniel’s expression darkens, enough to put Bruce on a sharper edge. “ _Eve_. Hm.” The first name basis sits sourly in the eldest Winter sibling’s mouth, jaw wound a little tighter. “Is she safe?” Is the query that Nate eventually opts for, deciding to overlook the endearing name drop, and filing that thought away for a later date, one where he can talk to his sister, _alone_.

“She is,” Bruce firmly answers, not a drop of hesitation painting his tone. “Wouldn’t listen when I told her to stay away, so she’s with me now. No one will find her, I promise.”

“Hm,” the Black Dog grunts, moving for the very first time since the Dark Knight has entered the room. Rising to a slow, leisurely stand, the mercenary takes his time ambling around the desk, fingers ghosting over paperwork and the austere timber. He maintains eye contact with Wayne the entire time. “Eva does that. Not listening. It’s why you shouldn’t speak empty promises that involve her.”

The Batman’s brows furrow, regarding Nathaniel mildly perplexed and stern. “I don’t make promises lightly. She _is_ safe.”

“You can tell me you know where she is? Right now. This minute,” Nate sternly asks, coming to a smooth stop in front of the detective, the criminal three inches taller than the billionaire, and glaring down at the vigilante that holds his sister’s intrigue.

Bruce hesitates, because despite the fact she should be at the manor, he simply doesn’t _know_ that for certain. One thing he does know, is that the PI detests sitting still; a quality that refutes the likelihood of her remaining at the manor for the duration of the day. _Perhaps a call is due,_ the CEO of Wayne Enterprises surmises.

The question is left too long without an answer, resulting in an unidentifiable twitch of Nate’s lips. “No, then. Good. A complacent Eva calls for more concern than a meddlesome Eva. Could be dangerous, but she’s not stupid. Eva could talk the devil out of damnation, and charm wolves to dance with hares.”

After a brief bout of mild surprise at hearing the longest stringent of words to ever leave Nathaniel Winter’s mouth, the tiniest of genuine smiles ghost Bruce’s lips for but a second, his reply uninflected yet genuine despite the stiffness of standing before the morally grey mercenary. “That wouldn’t surprise me, honestly.”

As if recalling his company, the glint of fondness saved only for his sister dies out behind Nathaniel’s expression, the taller man bringing himself back to the world around him. A breathy, near inaudible grunt escapes him before he murmurs “This is your city. Eva is my sister. She likes you, I don’t. But I respect her, and she respects you. So if you find Sionis first, fine. He goes, your way. But if _I_ find him first…” The mercenary looms even closer, a breath away from the hero, gravelly tone dipping several octaves deeper in steely, caged ire.

“I’ll feed his hands to Croc, for Waylon grows hungry in his sewers. I’ll send his tongue to Falcone, for he found his promises so pretty. I’ll give his balls to Dent, who took too long to grow a pair and kill the bastard. And I’ll save his mask just for you, because you find it easier to look at yourself in the mirror hiding behind one, than you do without.”

Accustomed to far more nefarious, menacing threats and displays of grim and unhinged violence, the Dark Knight doesn’t blink in the face of the Black Dog’s promise. However, the tension in his frame multiplies tenfold. The Nathaniel Winter’s anger doesn’t lash out like fire; unpredictable, consuming, easy to ignite and difficult to control. No, his anger – like his name would suggest – creeps in like winter ice; gradual, looming, inevitable when it draws near, and impossible to stave off once it arrives. Ice is calculated, controlled, doesn’t threaten to set alight everything that surrounds it in its devouring fury. The Joker is rather like fire in that respect, his chaotic an unpredictable nature difficult to grasp, and burns anyone who tries. But Nathaniel’s ice is contained, only freezing those who wrong him. Clever, restrained, premeditating adversaries are always more difficult to pinpoint, and always concern Bruce the most. Not the super powered humans or aliens, or mob bosses with the most influence and men, but clever individuals who play a game of wits with every intention to win.

Strength, abilities and _power_ is power. But knowledge and intelligence is control. Raw power – the strength to lift a truck, shoot lasers from your eyes, run at the speed of light or throw lightning from your fingertips – may offer a sense of authority or superiority, yet not always control. But knowledge and acuity, the ability to understand and know a person or situation, to pull at strings of marionettes, to toy with truths unrevealed and scandalous in nature, _that_ is power through control. When it comes to power through control, it matters not if you can throw fire, lift twenty times your weight or are the best martial artist in the world, because even if the meekest, weakest and most ordinary of people inherently understand you enough to pinpoint your every move, or possess the knowledge of a secret or fact that isn’t public for good reason, then what use is fire, strength or violence? Contingencies are often in place, so even if you do neutralize the threat, information can still get out. Power plays through wit and knowledge, if applied correctly, can cripple the most powerful of people and nations. _That_ is what power through control is capable of.

It is because of this, that after many a week and month of considering the two Winter siblings, Bruce can finally identify a commonalty between them; control. Evangeline Winter is by no means a physically threatening individual, but her disposition and ability to unearth and effectively utilise information through the power of language is what grants her control. Nathaniel Winter, on the other hand, certainly has power in terms of physicality. Bruce has brawled the mercenary before. Yet he also has power through control; for controlling his own emotions, tone and imposing disposition to the degree he does, as well as all the intel digging he undertakes before an assignment – something the Dark Knight was first hand to, and how Nathaniel knows of his identity – has granted him control in different aspects, and by consequence, power.

Bruce Wayne however, is not easily intimidated. In matters where the Batman is concerned, power is null and void. The vigilante has taken on people, aliens, meta humans and supernatural beings of all kinds of power, and has eventually come out on top in the end each time, despite an occasional temporary failure or misstep along the way. Nathaniel Winter does not intimidate Bruce Wayne, yet does give him cause for concern over Roman Sionis. The billionaire has never taken a life, and criminal or not, believes murder is never the answer. The Black Dog has offered him an ultimatum; get to Sionis first, and the elder Winter sibling leaves the crime lord alone, fail, and Roman Sionis is as good as dead.

Hardly even blinking in the face of the formidable mercenary, Bruce stiffly regards him with an impassive expression, steadily informing “You know it won’t come to that. I won’t allow it to.”

Nathaniel grunts, also unflappable in behaviour. Begrudgingly, the mercenary holds an inkling of respect for the vigilante, in spite of their shaky history and conflict of morals and interest. That inkling is barely a drop to the ocean of admiration and love he holds for his sister however, and Roman Sionis has not only hurt her, but attempted to murder her. _Twice_. Eva and him have their disagreements, but they would move mountains and conquer seas for one another, and Roman Sionis would see her dead.

Death would be a mercy, one far too kind, in comparison to what the Black Dog has in store for the Black Mask.

“Never asked for permission,” Nate murmurs after a moment of eerie disquiet, resolute in speech and conviction. “I’ll never ask for forgiveness either.”

***

_Hm, I suppose I’ll have to apologise at some point for the abrupt departure, though I doubt that will do much to curtail his frustration,_ the North Carolinian notes to herself, regarding the temperamental crime boss she spent the past few hours with. Two Face had a matter that required his attention, and excused himself for twenty or so minutes. Could have been more for all Eve knows, but after the first twenty, the PI decided to slip out as well, pardoning herself with a _tiny_ white lie about needing the bathroom. In actual fact, she found herself discreetly escaping out the back, having attained what she requires as of that moment, and fulfilled her sense of obligation towards the felon for the time being.

Honestly, Evangeline _would_ have properly said goodbye and left through the front door, if it wasn’t for the fact that Harv would have only assigned men to tail her once again. She can’t afford to jeopardise Bruce, Alfred, Dick or Tim, even Miss Gordon, on the off chance that she may be at the manor. The fact that Harvey and Bruce used to be the closest of friends once upon a time would, perhaps, even result in an inkling of possessiveness or jealousy, after all, Two Face has already exhibited territorial signs, through more than one demonstration.

_“Plus, he considers you his PI, ‘cause of how you two made that deal.”_

_“He doesn’t like being told no. As far as you, and he, and all of his men are concerned... you belong to Two Face.”_

His own _men_ admitted the possessive proclamations, and Two Face himself did nothing to deny the accusations when they first talked earlier today. _Oh, the bounds of potential jealousy that could arise if he knew of my current living arrangements,_ Eve amusedly ponders, hailing a taxi on a street corner a couple blocks away from Hell’s Gate. _Heaven forbid I start **dating** someone. Between my brother, Bec, Edward and now Harv, I’m likely going to end up a chaste nun for the remainder of my days._

Having left her number on a small note in his office, Eve expects a text or call at any point in time soon, so when her phone begins to buzz as she settles in the back seat of the cab, said taxi beginning its journey towards Wayne manor, the call comes as no surprise. The _caller_ , however, _is_ more of a surprise.

“Alfred?”

_“Ah, Miss Winter, I was hoping you would answer.”_

Eve gently smiles amidst her small, perplexed frown, loosening the knot between her brows. “Always for you Alfred. I’m actually on my way back to the manor now. Was there something you needed?”

_“I was actually calling to determine your whereabouts my dear,”_ the elder man admits, mild shuffling occurring in the background. _“I’m leaving the manor myself in a few minutes to pick up Master Drake from school, and was wondering if you required collection anywhere yourself.”_

“You’re a gem Alfred, but I’m quite alright. However, to save you some time and distance, I don’t mind picking up Tim from school,” Eve offers, enjoying the idea of participating in something a little more mundane after the past twenty-four hours she has had. “I haven’t had much of a chance to spend time with him yet, besides the one-sided conversation from this morning’s breakfast. I imagine he’s more awake now, however.”

_“Only if it isn’t too much of a bother Miss. I haven’t quite got around to tonight’s dinner preparations yet.”_

“You and Bruce have given me a safe place to lie low whilst all of this blows over, this is honestly the least I can do,” the detective earnestly assures.

_“Very well Miss. You’ll find Master Tim at Brentwood Academy at Bristol, across the river from Gotham. I’m sure he’ll be quite pleased by the surprise. He seems to have taken a shine to you.”_

Moved by the sentiment, Eve bashfully finishes the phone call after a few more words are spoken between the two. Apologising to the driver, the tolerant taxi attendant changes course for Brentwood Academy, the private investigator spending the next half an hour wading through Gotham traffic and peaceful radio music.

Not too far from the school, the raven haired woman finally receives the call she has been anticipating, noting the unknown caller ID and failing to hide her impish grin. Sliding her finger across the screen to answer, Eve draws the phone up to her ear. “Hm, you took longer than I assumed.”

_“Where the fuck are you?”_

Evangeline clucks her tongue admonishingly, glancing out the window with an even wider smile. “I don’t usually value crassness, but with you, it’s beginning to become endearing.”

_“Cut the cute shit and tell me where you are.”_

“Cute? You think I’m cute? That’s lovely, I don’t think I’ve been called cute before. As for my whereabouts, sorry Harv, I value your dedication to seeing me stay alive and appreciate all you have been doing for me, but I can’t just stay locked up in a pretty penthouse or office, under guard by your men. Despite the fact you have taken to calling me ‘Princess’, I refuse for you to lock me away in some tower.”

The private investigator can detect the growing annoyance seeping through the phone, and hear a muffled grunt of aggravation as a result of her unwillingness to comply with his request. _“I mean it Princess, Sionis has guys everywhere. I need you in my reach.”_ Coming from anyone else it perhaps would have been charming, but with Two Face, nearly anything he says sounds like a threat.

“You don’t give me enough credit Harv, after all we have been through,” Eve playfully chides, spying the school at the end of the street. “I swear to you, if I find myself in trouble, or around people I don’t trust, I _will_ call you. In the meantime, I’ll keep you updated with my findings, see what – between the three of us – we can piece together.” Referring to Harv and Harvey as two different people has become shockingly instinctual by this point. It may hinder any progress their psychiatrist at Arkham has made towards their delusions, but quite frankly, after having spent time with both of them, it is difficult for Eve to see them as one person now. It truly does feel as if she is conversing with two starkly opposed personalities.

A displeased rumble can be heard, but evidently, Two Face seems to choose his battles wisely, and this isn’t one of them. _“Fine. But if you so much as get a wrong look from a stranger in the street, call me. Don’t need any bold fuckers thinking they have a lucky shot at killing Gotham’s precious fucking Guardian Angel, and murdering my chance at taking Sionis down for good.”_

“Your priorities cease to astound me Harv,” the detective responds, tone the closest it will ever get to being sarcastic. “Take care, stay safe.”

The criminal’s grumble is slightly more uncomfortable than irked this time around, the super villain ending the call with a _“Yeah whatever, you too.”_

_Click_.

Glancing down at the phone now in her lap, another sincere, warm smile works its way onto Eve’s lips, before pocketing the grin alongside her phone and turning her attention to the driver, who has adeptly pulled up in front of the school. “I’ll only be five, ten minutes at the most. The teenager I’m picking up has a free class last, so I’ll hunt him down and be in and out before you know it.”

The driver patiently nods and lets the North Carolinian know to take her time, he knows how distracted teenagers can be, commenting on his own fifteen-year-old daughter before waving Evangeline off. Thoughtfully closing the car door without too much vigour, the raven haired PI approaches the vast, towering, college-like academy, wondering where to even begin with finding the teen, who wasn’t even originally expecting Alfred to come pick him up early, according to the butler.

_Mister Drake reminds me of myself when I was younger,_ Eve fondly remarks, pausing outside the imposing front doors of the school. _So I suppose, the question I should ask is; if I were young again, and passing time at school, where would I be?_


	19. Deductions 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lil' of bonding between Timmy and Eve, and Bruce realizing he wants to do some *ahem* bonding of his own with her.
> 
> Not even sorry.

_“You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.”_ ~ Sherlock Holmes

It doesn’t take long for Eve to happen upon Timothy Drake, the eighteen-year old hunched over at least three text books with a pen positioned in hand at a six seater study desk, hidden in the recesses of the otherwise empty school library. Dick Grayson strikes Evangeline as the kind of teenager that she would’ve found out in the field, spending his school hours amongst his peers, basking in some semblance of normality before returning to the vigilantism he secretly craves deep down at home. Tim, however, immediately gave Eve the impression of a young man with soul of a wise one, sharp, not as care free and spirited as the older Grayson. Even without the vigilantism, the PI suspects that the Boy Wonder would’ve still been a night owl, nights on end spent studying, learning or indulging in some kind of mischief behind a computer. Timothy Drake’s mind is a sponge, and despite not knowing the teenager well, the Southerner can already tell that he spends every waking hour wanting to absorb that sponge with as much water as humanely possible.

The current Robin undoubtedly noticed her presence long before she arrives to a stop besides him, the investigator’s hip gently resting against the pushed in chair to Tim’s left, but leaves the first words to be said to Eve anyway, to which she happily obliges. “Computer Science and Information Technology?” The PI reads aloud, hazel gaze skimming over the laid out text books briefly, but attentively. “Not precisely my forte, but my best friend is overtly familiar with the machinations of programming and – allegedly – gaining access to information systems that she otherwise shouldn’t have access to. I’m sure something has stuck in the recesses of my mind from her frequent rambling, although I imagine, in comparison to how much you already know, that limited information would be quite useless.”

“Every bit matters, and it’s the thought that counts anyway,” Timothy Drake shares a fleeting, reassuring smile with the Southerner. Laying his pen to rest as he relaxes back into his seat, allowing him a better look at Evangeline, something in his back cracks as his muscles roll out the stiffness that has taken residence there. “I’d thought you be home recovering after last night’s excitement. Alfred send you? Or Bruce?”

“I sent myself, actually,” Eve informs the teen, sending him a warm smile. “Was ‘in the neighbourhood’ as the saying goes, and offered to pick you up. Sitting still is completely and utterly _boring_ , it’s not like my injuries are that severe anyway. Not to mention, I’m certain it’s not the first time Mr Pennyworth has discovered a resident of the household has slipped away to get up to no good, no matter how endlessly entertaining your household already is.”

Tim manages a small chuckle, his gaze reflecting the truth behind the assumption. “By the sounds of it you’re already fitting in just fine. It’s part of a rite of passage by this point if I’m being honest; not listening to Bruce. You could be an honorary Robin in no time if you wanted.”

Eve’s light but thoroughly amused laugh dances around the young vigilante’s ears in response, the North Carolinian admitting “I think I’ll leave the jumping off of rooftops to the professionals thank you. The job is already in more than capable hands anyway.”

“Eh, each set of hands has been – for the most part – capable in their own way so far, you’d just be adding another set of skills executed in a different manner to a constantly changing job position. Though, you are a _little_ older than the typical Robin demographic…”

“Timothy Drake, are you calling a lady _old?_ ” The younger Winter sibling incredulously questions, though fails to keep her own smile at bay.

“ _Older_ , not old, you’re still younger than Bruce,” Tim backtracks, biting back his own grin. “Thirty-four, right? Only a year younger him, but inside he’s actually a hundred-year-old grandpa who I don’t think has _ever_ been familiar with the concept of having fun, whilst you have the spirit and stubbornness of a young Robin. An inability to sit still, a relentless empathy for others, some of the greatest deductive skills I have ever seen – if the spirit of a Robin wasn’t tainted by the city of Gotham, you’d fit the bill just fine.”

Although flattered, Eve is already occupied by other thoughts upon hearing the Boy Wonder’s words, momentarily scrutinising the teen up and down. “Firstly, Dick was correct, you _do_ happen to do your research astoundingly well, down to my own age,” Eve notes, aware that whatever her dossier says about her, Tim very likely know. _Eidetic memory, interesting_. “Secondly, you talk about the Robins as if there have been several. Admittedly, I perhaps haven’t done as much homework on the vigilantes in this city as I have on the criminals, but if it isn’t overstepping any boundaries… how many have there been?”

“Four, so far,” the third Robin answers, expression settling into something more serious. _His vigilante face_ , Eve notes as Mr Drake continues. “Dick was first, taken in after the incident with his parents, ‘The Flying Graysons’ at the circus. Then, he was followed by Jason. I never met him, Joker got to him about three years back, sent Bruce into a violent spiral. It’s why I stepped up; Batman needed a Robin, and I had already figured out their identities a few years ago, when Dick was still Robin. Dick didn’t want to return to being Robin, so I took up the mantle instead. I was 16.”

The solemn news of the fate of the second Robin noticeably dampens the mood of the room, but Eve nonetheless directs an assuring, gentle look at Tim to continue, to which he does. “Lasted about a year before my dad found out. He figured out Bruce and Dick too, and in order to swear him to secrecy, I said I’d give it up, went back to being ordinary for a few short months. During that time, someone else stood up. I don’t know how much you know about the vigilante Spoiler, who was relatively new when I had to step down, but she took up being Robin those few short months I was gone. She had helped us before in the past as Spoiler, first time we met she was actually dropping us clues around the city, then helped us take out her dad, Cluemaster. I like her, I trust her. Bruce fired her pretty quick though. She disobeyed once and he just snapped.”

The PI discerns the annoyance stewing behind Tim’s expression, the teenager staring down at his textbooks again for a moment. “She took it hard, but got past it. I returned not long after though, after my old school was hit by the mob my dad understood. Didn’t like it, didn’t have to, but he understood.”

Sympathetically, Eve spares him another smile, reaching out slowly to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tim tenses, but doesn’t complain, prompting the investigator to tentatively ask “How long ago did you lose him?”

It wasn’t difficult to discern. Timothy Drake spoke of his father with a solemness, and if the teenager is living with Bruce as a guardian, then both parents are evidently out of the picture.

“Five months ago. Criminal called Captain Boomerang broke in and got him,” is all the young vigilante offers as an answer, still not quite meeting her gaze.

Something more lies there, likely the in the nature of the relationship between Tim and his father, but Eve refrains from pressing, understanding the complications involved with the relationship between a child and their parents. She never could quite forgive her own parents for being so blind towards the turmoil her brother endured in his childhood and teenage years, never fully. They’re two of the only people Evangeline Winter has never found it in herself to fully forgive.

“Regardless of the nature of the relationship that exists between a child and their parents, it’s rather natural to feel at least some semblance of remorse for their passing, even guilt, despite the fault not even remotely lying with you. Whatever feelings you have Tim, they’re justified. You don’t need to explain a single thing to me about any of it, but I know nonetheless, they’re justified,” Eve consoles, the teenager finally meeting her gaze again; curious, cautious, automatically guarded, but open to her words. “I know telling you to do such things is easier said than done, but do try to focus on the now. Dick, Bruce, Miss Gordon, Alfred – they all care, and I’m certain even if you did need moments to dwell and talk about the past, they’d be more than happy to indulge you, because they’re your family. If they so happen to be all busy, my door is always open too, even if we haven’t known each other that long yet.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” the Boy Wonder responds, half out of automatic politeness, half out of genuine sincerity. Evangeline Winter is still new to him, but her profound compassion, empathy and moral alignment truly does make her easily likeable and seemingly trustworthy. Bruce trusts her as well, which still astounds Tim and his older adopted brother. The number of people the guarded Dark Knight trusts outside the super hero society could probably be counted on one hand, and even then, within said super hero society, his trust holds an entirely different and higher set of standards. Bruce hasn’t admitted said trust for the private investigator, but Tim can still see it, clear as day. Whether Miss Winter realises it or not, she’s soon enough going to have the Batman tightly wrapped around her little finger, if him backing down almost easily last night was any indication.

“You know, if you ever have the time, I’d love to learn a thing or two from you. Our cowls and masks have this built in technology called ‘Detective Mode’. It’s highly advanced form of technology developed by Lucius Fox at Wayne Enterprises; it picks up on the heat signatures of every human being nearby, determining and highlighting them in blue or orange, depending on whether they’re armed or not; it also highlights potential weapons in yellow; it can track chemical substance trails once the chemical has been analysed; can pick up on various abnormal frequencies in the area; and, perhaps most crucially, it can construct and reconstruct a crime scene, if we scan and analyse it enough for specific clues. We still need a sharp and intuitive mind to use it, it doesn’t pick up on everything, but you can do that kind of deductive work without the cowl or mask. If it’s even possible, you see _more_.”

Tim pauses, surveying the Southerner. “I’d really like to learn, if you’d take me on. I could train you in return; how to fight, some basic self-defence. Could help if you ever get caught like you did last night.”

For a long moment, Evangeline Winter simply regards the teen before her, seriously scrutinising his resolute, determined features. Evidently finding what she was looking for, the crowned Guardian Angel of Gotham reverts back to her familiar gentle disposition, affirming “I’d be happy to, Tim. I have a relatively free afternoon, and seeing as you’re off early… would you like to begin today?”

The Boy Wonder finally allows a wide, genuine grin to spread across his face, nodding his head in confirmation as his growing dark hair sweeps briefly in front of his light blue gaze. Tim truly is going to be the best detective the world has ever seen one day, a fact that Evangeline Winter is already beginning to sense, and one that Bruce Wayne had conceded to long ago.

***

The cab driver drops Timothy Drake and Evangeline Winter off two blocks away from the café Eve has in mind, one that – as far as she’s aware – isn’t run by any prominent mobsters or felons, and shouldn’t jeopardise hers or Tim’s safety at any given moment. At first, the young vigilante protests when the investigator offers to pay for the taxi, apparently possessing a credit card that is linked directly to Bruce’s account – whether or not the billionaire is aware of said card is beside the point, according to Mr Drake – but after much convincing, he concedes to the detective anyway, Eve insisting that between Dick looking out for her the previous night, and Bruce taking her in now, that it’s the least she could do.

The couple block stroll to _Tongue Teasers Café_ is filled with mild small talk – him still being in his school uniform – and the exchange quite pleasant, actually. Tim really only receives moments such as these once in a blue moon, and usually when Dick is in town. Generally pleasant and friendly conversation with Bruce is futile, the Dark Knight’s train of thought almost always focused on crime and which villain or mob requires their attention next, or on anything else regarding the vigilante-superhero lifestyle, and whilst Alfred is certainly there for him when he needs it, he also _does_ have a million and one jobs to do around the manor, not including all he does to help with their night time escapades.

Conner Kent and Bart Allen are the only two people outside Alfred and his elder brother Dick that Tim truly finds himself confiding in, spending time and being an _actual_ teenager with them. More often than not _they_ visit _him_ , a likely result of Bruce’s considerably sizeable estate, but it’s still a long distance friendship when they’re not spending time together in Young Justice, and with their own respective cities to safeguard, their schedules rarely align enough for a thorough catch up. Stephanie Brown is slowly becoming a steady constant in his life as well, but she only knows Robin, not Timothy Drake, and that hinders any immersive connection they could potentially have, no matter how much he likes her. And he likes her a _lot_.

Regarding the PI next to him, Tim appraises the thirty-four-year-old. She smiles in an unafraid manner, unashamed of wearing her joy and amusement for everyone to see, but it’s not always completely free or unrestrained. Control lies there. Not an overbearing control freak, not to the Riddler’s degree, but perhaps closer to Tim’s own level. Control through knowledge, her image, and the power of her language – if her ongoing affiliation with Nygma and Dent, and her current peace treaty with the mob is any indication – is where her power lies, something that Tim can profoundly relate to. He knows he isn’t the kind of gifted gymnast Dick is, or unrelenting street fighter Jason was. Physically, he could never compete with either of them, even when he trains three times as much as they did, constantly feeling this need to prove himself.

But intelligence? Deductive skills and computational science? _That_ is where his talents lie. Barbara herself said he was the smartest Robin yet, and she’s been there for _all_ of them. Tim did not take the compliment lightly. It was an affirmation of his use, of his _value_ , what he, Timothy Drake, can contribute that Robins number one or two could not, not to his degree. And Evangeline Winter? Well, in that regard, she’s just like him. She’s not entirely incompetent of taking care of herself in a fight, but whether last night was luck or talent is unknown to the Boy Wonder. He hasn’t seen her in action, and cannot pass judgment on her combat capabilities.

That aside, it’s her wit, intelligence and tactical mind that has gotten her this far. It’s why at the Winter Gala, three months’ prior, Tim was ecstatic to meet her. Salvatore Maroni; gone. The Maroni crime family; gone. She didn’t throw a single punch, but systematically disassembled an entire empire that has been around for _generations_ , since Gotham was born. He could learn from that, use that kind of acumen against other hostile groups one day, perhaps the League of Assassins, or other Gotham crime families.

Timothy Drake admires Evangeline Winter. It began with her detective skills and intellect, and now, as they amble along the sidewalks of the concrete jungle that is Gotham City, it’s beginning to develop alongside a genuine enjoyment of being in her presence, of her being able to accept and handle the vigilantism and crime associated with him and his family, but also allow him to indulge in mundane, calm moments such as these.

When a lapse in conversation befalls the space between the two, Tim glances back towards the Southerner, only to realise she is a few steps behind, loitering at the mouth of dingy alleyway. Furrowing his brows in perplexity, the dark haired teen opens his mouth to question her stopping, when a bedraggled, dirtied young girl with mousy brown hair – absolutely tiny in size, but doesn’t look to be much younger than him – sidles up to the investigator from the alley. She casts Tim a cautious glance, which is promptly removed after Evangeline’s reassurance “You can talk, he’ll keep a secret.”

Glimpsing back and forth between Gotham’s Guardian Angel and the seemingly homeless looking teen, the young vigilante attentively observes the exchange, curiosity piqued.

“Sionis was spotted down on 5th today. One of the younger kids overheard one of his men talking about hitting Two Face’s _Apollo_ _Casino_ tonight. An older guy later heard that it’s supposedly to distract him from you, whilst also pissing off Face. Two birds, one stone.”

“Noted, thank you. Anything on the other crime families?”

“Markovic and O’Reilly are quiet, but Falcone just bought a large van full of firearms from Penguin according to Micky. Spotted outside at the warehouse on Michigan’s a little after 2. Could be on the offensive, could be on the defensive. Markovic and O’Reilly aren’t exactly happy with him right now.”

“You have been abundantly helpful today Tic-Tac; I sincerely thank you. Here, the shipment should make it to the hall just fine tonight, but have a little extra for your troubles.”

Eve slips what seems to be a $50, a Kit-Kat and a box of Tic-Tacs out of her small shoulder bag, handing it to the unkempt girl, who grins like a child on Christmas day when the private eye relinquishes the money and treats over to her. Nodding appreciatively at the North Carolinian, the small brunette scurries off as quickly and quietly as she came, Tim honestly impressed by her light footfall. _Reliant on toes, light of foot, grace in movement; could be a gymnast like Dick, or—_

“She used to take up ballet,” Eve impedes his train of thought, staring right at him, smiling, like she knows _precisely_ what he’s thinking – which, if her words are any indication, she apparently does. “Her father nurtured his proclivity for gambling more than her after Tic-Tac’s mother passed, resulting in a financial debt that pushed her out on the streets, and an unhappy mobster relinquishing a bullet between his eyes. I’ve taken it upon my agenda to familiarize myself with the unseen members of Gotham, those who own and know these streets more intimately than anyone else; the homeless. I’m not exactly a billionaire like Mr Wayne, but since moving to Gotham and working nonstop, my bank account has grown _considerably_ healthier, so a little over a couple months back I started paying for some basic food, clothes, water and bits of entertainment like board games to be sent to homeless shelters and halls across Gotham, three different ones each time. Can’t afford to send to them all every time, and they _are_ large shelters with numerous people within them, but it’s something. I didn’t even mean to make them into my own ‘spies’ if you will at first, but then Tic-Tac simply approached me one day, told me about a planned robbery she overheard, and didn’t know what to do with such information.  They’re not exactly fans of cops; some treat them poorly. So, she passed it on to me.”

Shrugging, as the two walk alongside one another once again, the private eye continues staring ahead, lost in the memory. “Since then it grew and became more like a network. They help me with my information gathering and PI work, and I continue to send them all the basic necessities I can afford. Some of the people who have granted me aid don’t even frequent the shelters I interchangeably help around the city, some simply help because they want to, because they believe it’s the right thing.”

Coming to a stop outside the café, a small, slick coat of sweat gathering on their lower backs and under their arms from the walk in the overbearing heat, Eve’s pointed gaze envelops Tim like a teacher who has singled you out in class, explicitly attempting to teach _you_ a lesson. “Fear works Tim, and it works well for people in yours and Bruce’s and Dick’s profession, but a little bit of kindness truly can go a long way. Nobody can ever wholeheartedly resent kind actions and words.”

“Kindness has different meaning coming from different people, but, I _do_ get what you’re saying. Just doesn’t always, or often really, work in Gotham. Somewhere along the way we all just stopped trying it that way, forgot, found fear easier,” Tim mulls, mouth in a grim line. “We shouldn’t have stopped, even if it doesn’t work nine out of ten times, we gave up on that one time it could’ve. Thanks for the reminder, Miss Winter.”

“If I have to tell another member of your family that ‘Eve’ is just fine, I’m afraid you’re going to have to admit me to Arkham. The constant reminders are trying my sanity,” the investigator playfully warns, beating Tim to opening the door for the other to pass through.

“You’d break out of that place in a day,” Tim briefly snorts in mild amusement, the PI trailing in after him.

“Mm, yes, probably.”

The two happily settle with a cup of tea each instead of coffee inside the rustic timber styled café, as well as a couple slices of carrot cake to share, spending a few more minutes contently chatting before Eve begins. The corner they take up is lined with comfortable cushions, soft blues to compliment the dark wood, and offers a lovely, secluded view of the rest of the establishment.

“Firstly, I wish to see where you are at Tim,” Miss Winter announces, pointing her fork at him deliberately. “Lady in the lovely red scarf, three down and to the right; what do you see?”

Tim blinks at the PI, narrowed eyes uncertain. “From here?”

“No of course not, I nicked her hair pin on the way over,” the raven haired woman twirls the authentic gold decorative hair pin encrusted in a couple small diamonds with a light pink rose between her free fingers, handing it over to the teenager. “Return it to her, tell me what you see.”

Standing up, the Boy Wonder does just that, strolling over to the middle aged woman sitting by her lonesome and awkwardly clearing his throat, garnering her attention. “Sorry ma’am, but I think you dropped this?”

Her brown eyes almost widen comically at the interruption, glimpsing between him and the pin. Tim attempts to be as discreet as possible in his surveying of her whilst still sparing enough attention to the conversation at hand.

“My dear, I didn’t even notice it fell from my head!” The lady squawks, blinding feeling up around her bun before accepting the extended ‘lost’ pin. “Thank you my boy! You’re one of Mr Wayne’s children aren’t you? Oh, he has raised you boys _well_. Taken after his father and mother he has, despite the tragic incident that befell them, God rest their souls—”

Tim tries to catch all her words, he truly does, but there are a _lot_ of them, and he is fairly distracted with analysing her whilst he’s at it. He does manage to tune in every so often nonetheless, but furrows his brows, moderately lost with the current new topic he didn’t catch her Segway into.

“—you here with Gotham’s Guardian Angel? Saw the two of you wander in. Isn’t she a _doll?_ She and your father would make such a _wonderful_ pairing! Is that why she is with you? Spending time with the partner’s children? Simply _marvellous_ —”

_She doesn’t stop talking_ , the young vigilante mildly balks. Until, finally, it seems she has grown tired of his presence, and her own voice.

“—I wish her and your father _and_ you all the best young man. God bless you for returning my pin to me.”

Flashing the lady another awkward but slightly suaver grin than before, the young hero nods his head at the talkative lady, slowly shuffling away. “Thank you ma’am, I’ll pass on the message to her and my father. Enjoy the rest of your coffee.”

Tim flees the scene as quickly as he can without coming off as rude or desperate to escape, returning to his seat moments later only to spy a thoroughly amused Evangeline Winter attempting to stave off her grin at the encounter. _Evidently, she heard._

“God _bless_ you young man, God bless you.”

“You’re as bad as Dick,” Tim chuckles, feeling at ease again with the familiar banter coming from the less familiar mouth, pulling his chair in as he settles. “It was hard, with her talking as much as she did – distracting – but… you knew that, didn’t you? It’s why you chose her.”

Pleased with his first deduction, Evangeline grins openly at him, brushing a stray strand of her ebony hair away from her line of sight. “When we walked in I happened to notice her chattering on about her younger years indulging in adolescent frivolities with her old neighbour and classmate to the server. The waitress was uncomfortably shuffling around on her feet, progressively edging back towards the kitchens. She wore a friendly enough but strictly polite customer service smile, posture and expression clearly indicating a lack of familiarity, therefore the woman plainly seems to enjoy chatting to anyone who will listen, and would offer enough of a distraction to hinder a novice attempting to read her. But I highly doubt Mr Wayne would allow a novice to work alongside him Tim. I can already sense how clever you are. I’m not here to teach you a plethora of brand new tricks, I’m just here to help refine the ones you already have.”

Using her fork to cut off a corner of the carrot cake, Evangeline Winter smoothly picks up the cut piece with the pronged eating utensil, gesturing at him pointedly. “Our minds are our swords Timothy Drake. I simply wish to hand you your own whetstone, so you can keep yours indefinitely sharp.”

Plopping the cake gracefully in her mouth, the private eye chews for a few moments before placing the fork down, signalling for him to continue. “So, tell me, what did you observe?”

“Religious, for starters,” the teen begins with the obvious, barely containing his own grin.

Eve chuckles lightly at the deduction, hiding her mouth and nose behind a propped up hand, even the airy sound coming off as elegant.

Pursing his lips in thought, Tim continues. “No wedding band, but a tan line was where it would be. It’s fading, almost indistinguishable, so it’s not recent, she’s not purposefully removing it or having forgotten it by chance, it hasn’t been worn in a while. I would say a couple months? Perhaps three? I would guess divorced and not widowed. She appears the type to share any kind of inconvenient news – or news at all – about her, and wears her emotions quite prominently on her face – she’d be terrible at poker – and didn’t come off as distraught at all, more so in need of attention. She’s not used to not having anyone to talk their ear off at home, mustn’t have much to keep her home at all; the breakfast menu was still on her table, so she’s been here since at least late morning. Seems she divorced someone well off; the pin was real gold and diamonds, relatively new, but worn most days if not every day, the natural light coat of skin oil that comes from a person’s fingers making the gold glisten as if freshly polished, one of the encrusted diamonds coming loose already. Her clothes are designer too, kept in immaculate shape.”

Mulling over his other findings, the Boy Wonder carries on, smiling at the more specific knowledge that aided with this particular deduction. For the first time in his life thus far, the Young Justice hero finds himself mentally thanking Poison Ivy. “The smell of fertilizer, dirt and gardenias hides under her perfume, her nails well-manicured and washed but ever so slightly crusted with dirt. Has a green thumb, attends to her own garden. I would guess flowers, judging by the gardenias and jasmine scent. Flowers are pretty, showy, and that’s what she values more over practicality or function, like a vegetable patch, her clothes and hair indicating that as well. Her clothes are colour coordinated very well, and the little vase of flowers on her table is more nicely put together and shaped than those of any other table, as if she fixed them when no one was looking. Between that, her love for gardening and the flower hairpin, I would say she’s a florist. That’s really all I got, she _was_ a bit distracting.”

Leaning back in her chair, Eve appraises the raven haired boy under her impressed gaze, tilting her head to the side as she smiles, appeased. “You are simply a _delight_ Tim; did you know that?”

The teenage hero shrugs off the compliment bashfully, not quite used to such open, unashamed praise. “You can do it too—”

“It doesn’t matter what I can do, this is about you. What _you_ can do,” the Southerner cuts him off gently before he could completely dust off the affirmation of his intellectual prowess, trying to convince him to take pride in himself. “Each of us are capable of different skills to different degrees paired with assortments of other diverse skills in other diverse combinations and pairs. Just because someone can do a flip, doesn’t mean it doesn’t take any less hard work, dedication and skill for the next person to do the same. You’re talented Timothy Drake, don’t belittle your own gifts.”

A genuine, wide, warm smile of appreciation graces Tim’s lips at Miss Winter’s words, his growing dark hair brushing over his vision again, the middle part of his hair resulting in the ebony strands to tickle the top outer corners of each eye. “Did I catch everything, then?”

“Doesn’t matter if you caught everything, you caught more than anyone else I’ve ever known. Except, perhaps, my best friend Rebecca, but she’s a psychiatrist who has trained herself to this level through no shortage of hard work. Even then though, she does not do it as naturally as you.”

“But I _did_ miss some things,” Tim presses on, desiring to know what slipped past him, how to improve.

Softly sighing, Eve nods, eyes skimming past him and to the woman over his shoulder three tables down for a fleeting second. “She _is_ recently divorced, and _did_ purchase that pin with the divorce money. However, she’s already dating someone new; a rich man, likely in the field of business, who is currently – as the kids these days seem to call it – her ‘sugar daddy’.”

Tim can’t help but laugh at the odd phrase coming from the detective’s mouth, Miss Winter laughing along with him for a moment until he asks “What gives you that impression?”

“Texture and health of her hair, the condition of her skin and nails. Her former husband – which yes, we’re going to assume _husband_ and not wife because of her strong religious predilection – evidently was financially stable, but not abundantly wealthy, because her hair, skin, face and nails only exhibit _recent_ professional care, not long term. Divorce money would offer enough for the pin and perhaps a brief splurge, but the physical care from hairdressers, beauticians and nail salons is something that requires repetitious attendance, not one pricey visit. The pin _has_ been worn a lot, exhibiting her fondness of the extravagant thing, which would generally mean she would be fiercely protective and possessive of it. It’s something flashy, as you said, showcases wealth and prosperity. However, she didn’t even notice its absence, and almost seemed forcibly surprised and relieved upon you returning it to her. If she really coveted such a valuable possession, she would fret over the financial complications of losing it, but she didn’t, as if she no longer has a need to be concerned over it, and florists don’t usually make enough to unconcernedly spend money on designer clothes, shoes and hairpins, only to not fuss if they get lost or damaged. Speaking of which, it’s her shoes that confirmed my suspicions the most.”

“Her shoes?”

“Mm yes. Louis Vuitton “Black Bird” platform sandals trimmed with diamonds. How _extravagant_. Shoes are easily lost, or find themselves in the dust and dirt. Once again unconcerned with the possibility of losing a shoe in the streets of Gotham, or soiling it. Another ostentatious display of wealth. The shoes were only launched nearing on a week ago, very recent, and after spending on the clothes, pin and beauty appointments, there’s a remarkably low possibility that she would’ve been able to afford _those_ designer shoes. Has to be dating someone of considerable wealth, someone who is perfectly content to splurge on their darling new girlfriend, but as a result, doesn’t believe he has to listen to her constant babbling at home, only wants her to sit and look pretty. That’s why she comes here, or to other restaurants and cafes, to chatter away to any server or human being that comes near and will listen.”

_Holy hell_. Tim refrains from staring _open mouthed_ at the PI, but can’t help altogether to _not_ stare. _Shoes? Hair? Skin? That’s all it took? It’s like that court scene from the movie Legally Blonde that Steph forced me sit down and watch. Incredible._

“How do you do it? To that specific degree?” The Boy Wonder inquires, leaning forward earnestly.

Smiling again, Eve explains “It takes time, and your mind requires as much training and exercise as any muscle, which is why I’m going to give you some basic tips and homework to start with, if you will take it on. It’s not much, but will allow you to improve your already spectacular deductive skills.”

“Of course, anything is great,” Tim immediately concedes, listening closely.

“In terms of tips and method, when you are deducing; lay out a chain of reasoning and test all possibilities, until whatever remains, must be the truth. Uncertainty, chance, randomness and luck –  they all meddle and threaten our ability to explain logically and quickly, so we naturally try to remove such coincidences and instances. When things make sense, it’s difficult seeing them in any other way, which is where errors come from. Sometimes you have to accept that things occur by chance. Nonetheless, correlation is not causation either, learn the distinction, have a surmountable amount of evidence before you even consider coming to a conclusion. In terms of homework, all I ask for you to do is fifteen minutes of mind meditation a day. Mind meditation is simply clearing the mind of all thoughts. Eyes closed, focused on your breath, in and out through the tip of your nose. If any niggling thought appears, acknowledge it briefly, then let it go, reverting your calm, blank focus back to your breath. It helps achieve the right state of mind required for imaginative, mindful thought, and allows you to subconsciously determine what you’re allowing in and out of your head; what facts, deductions, and so on and so forth. Once you’re skilled enough in it, it also allows you to enter the various states of mind that the person you are trying to deduce was likely in recently, or when a crime occurred, if you’re going off a crime scene instead of a person. That’s all I ask you do for now, I don’t wish to overwhelm you or push too far too fast, it’s better to achieve these things slowly and steady.”

“I’ll do it every day, I swear,” the teenager promises, already immediately planning to get ahead and complete today’s training before patrol tonight. “Thank you, Eve.”

Reaching forward, the private investigator lightly pats Tim’s hand, unable to hide her own excitement and enthusiasm for seeing him improve. “Anytime, Tim.”

***

Interestingly enough, when they get back to the manor, Tim at once offers to train with her, wishing to repay her for taking the time out of her afternoon to train him. They start small, the third Robin – similar to her earlier – not wishing to push her too hard too fast. Instead, the training session is more of a gym session. The young Drake gives her a set cardio, gymnastics and strength/weights routine to follow, relying on her to complete the routine at least four times a week, even more if she can.

Bruce discovers the two at the end of their shared workout. Strolling into the gym that breaks off from the Batcave, having failed at finding either of the two anywhere else, the billionaire pauses in the doorway to the open spaced combat room, where they often also do some basic floor exercises as well. The smallest of content smiles quirks at his lips upon finding a thoroughly amused Tim standing next to and glancing down at an exhausted Miss Winter, who is lying flat out against the floor, weary, sweaty and drained.

“Master Drake and Miss Winter appear to be getting along quite splendidly, don’t you so think Sir?”

The Dark Knight spares his butler and surrogate father a glance at the inquiry, not startled, but always amazed at how he’s the only one who can still successfully sneak up on him. “I suspected they would connect quickly. Tim has been idolizing her since the fall of Maroni, and they both possess a couple of the greatest minds I’ve ever seen. Dick saw being Robin as a thrill, it’s probably why he outgrew it. Jason saw being Robin as a game, it’s probably what got him killed. But, Tim… I have to hand it to the boy; he wants to be the world’s greatest detective. And from what I’ve seen so far, he _will_ be someday. Especially with _her_ guidance.”

“Don’t sell yourself too short Master Bruce,” the dry butler reassures. “Master Drake appreciates you too, and I’m sure one ceramic company or another would make you a ‘World’s 3rd Greatest Detective’ mug if you were to inquire.”

Quietly chuckling under his breath at the wry, deadpanned joke, Bruce casts his gaze back towards the two further in the room, Tim now laughing freely at something Eve said, whilst the PI gently laughs with him. She’s still strewn out cross the floor, her athletic gear tightly fitted; a light, baby blue sports bra and three quarter length black tights. Her back arches up a little when she laughs, chest pushing up in accordance with it, outlining the average but not unenticing swell of her heaving breasts, and the _very_ enticing, generous curve of her backside. For the first time in a _long_ time, Bruce can’t help but stare.

“See something you like, Master Bruce?”

This time, Bruce shoots Alfred a less than friendly look, one which only serves to amuse the butler, but refrains from letting that show. “There is no fault in looking, Master Bruce,” Alfred only continues to press, knowingly staring at him straight on, still able to read Bruce’s mind after all these years. “Miss Winter carries the sun with her wherever she goes, and one is often drawn to light, even if you do prefer to spend your evenings in the dark.”

“My dating history isn’t exactly simple Alfred,” Bruce sighs, rolling the tension out of his broad shoulders. “Not to mention I have very little time for a relationship these days. She deserves better.”

“Perhaps,” Alfred acquiesces, adding on “but, perhaps, she does not _want_ better. Something to consider at least, Sir.”

“Hey Alf, Bruce!” Tim snaps the attention of the aforementioned adults towards him, the teen and the PI conscious of the two in the wide doorway. “Didn’t hear you come in. Was just helping Eve organise a regular exercise routine to commit to. Thought it would be smart to help her get into fighting shape, and then teach her a little self-defence, especially if she’s going to keep running into Black Mask territory with nothing but a Taser-flashlight.”

“For your information Sir Timothy Drake, I was also in possession of a gun,” Eve playfully rectifies, pulling herself up into a sitting position and flashing Bruce a dazzling smile. “Which, I’m sure, would not assure Bruce in the slightest; a result of his profound distaste for the weapon.”

“I would prefer if you didn’t enter hostile territory _at all_ , but I’m beginning to understand that really isn’t much of an option with you,” the Dark Knight marginally yields, his opened blazer pushed back at the bottom, whilst his hands casually occupy his pockets. His black tie is hanging loosely, the first couple buttons haphazardly undone; the least put together Eve has ever seen him. Rugged. And admittedly, she can’t help but enjoy the view.

_I’ve never encountered him in broad daylight before, but I’m undoubtedly certain that if I did perchance stand before him during the day, his **much** larger frame would block out the entirety of the sun,_ Eve surmises, the crime fighter a little over half a foot taller than her, and with shoulders twice as broad as hers. _He is a literal wall of muscle._

“Afraid not. I would apologize, but the whole concept of an apology is supposed to be built upon sincerity,” Eve teases, tongue in cheek, earning an arched brow and a quirked lip from the billionaire.

“I’m abruptly getting the impression that you _aren’t_ sincere, Miss Winter.”

“My my, you _are_ the World’s Greatest Detective.”

The witty banter prompts a laugh from Tim and a small smile from Alfred, whilst the two members of the entertaining repartee maintain stern, stubborn eye contact, despite the evident humour dancing behind their locked gaze.

“I regret to interrupt such serious affairs, but I did originally come down with the intentions of announcing that dinner shall be ready in twenty minutes,” the elder gentleman informs the vigilantes and private investigator. “And I do not wish for the roast to go cold.”

“Allowing your cooking to go cold would be a crime against nature, Alfred,” the North Carolinian sincerely compliments, finally rising to a full stand. “I suppose I should get cleaned up first. Is there a shower I could perhaps please use?”

“There’s one a couple doors down from your room,” the Batman informs before Alfred is even permitted the chance of opening his mouth, the Justice League superhero stepping side on and gesturing for her to follow. “Come, I’ll show you.”

True to his word, Bruce walks her all the way up to the large marble and timber bathroom, Eve thanking him for all the soaps, shampoo, conditioner and towel before he leaves her once again, allowing her to tend to herself. It occurs to the raven haired woman that it has been a couple days since she last bathed, and the sensation of the soft, milky soap against her skin and the familiar orchids and vanilla scented shampoo and conditioner enveloping her hair soothing her beyond degree. Though, she does find the fact that Bruce or Alfred – or both – seem to know what brand she usually uses both peculiar and impressive.

After finishing off and reaching for her towel, does it finally occur to the detective that she failed to actually pick up a change of clothes before entering the shower, and has no desire to return to the sweaty, dirty athletic gear she shed prior. Eventually deciding that a quick traipse from the bathroom to her temporary room in nothing but a towel may be in order, Eve tightly wraps the article around her body just to do so, when a firm knock sounds from outside the door.

“Eve? It occurred to me that I don’t think you brought a change of clothes with you on the way in. Did you need me to get you a pair?”

_Bruce Wayne, my knight in shining armour_ , Eve sighs in gratification. _But, the walk to my room **is** only two doors down, and I’m going to have to open the door for him to hand my clothes anyway, so either way, Bruce Wayne **will** see me mostly naked. May as well make the journey myself._

Strolling over and opening the door herself, the smaller woman mildly startles the much larger man on the other side with her sudden appearance – well, his version of startled, which mainly includes a minor raise of his eyebrows – blue gaze instantly snapping to her barely covered form.

“Thank you, but the walk is a brief one Bruce. I think I can manage,” Eve innocently smiles up at him, honestly unaware of the effect she has on him right now.

It has been a while since Bruce has lay with a woman, and even longer since it’s been out of more than just a physical attraction. The Caped Crusader is uncertain how he precisely feels about Evangeline Winter just yet, but he does hold a growing fondness for her, that much is certain. She makes it difficult not to. Physically, however, she is undeniably attractive. Bruce has met many an attractive woman in his lifetime, some of them _actual_ goddesses and extra-terrestrial warriors, but that hasn’t made him blind towards the beauty still present in the everyday human civilian, a fact that could not be more apparent than now.

Gentle, delicate drops of water trickle along a path from the damp strands of her tussled hair down the valley of her breasts, disappearing underneath where the cotton towel cuts off his view. Most of the dark, damp mass is pushed behind her shoulders, only a couple of the short strands daintily hanging around her face; her sharp, smooth collar bone and long neck on perfect view. Her legs look equally as smooth, Bruce now desiring nothing more than to run his fingers slowly up her calves on either side, until they come to rest just barely beneath her backside, only to hoist her up into the air and roughly slam her against the closest wall, to revel in the loss of breath between those always smiling, soft, light pink lips.

He wants to, but he doesn’t.  

Of course, Eve _is_ aware of the fact her modesty is scarcely preserved right now, but honestly? The Dark Knight is often so stoic and impassive that by this point, she believes very little, if anything at all could truly faze him, and he does such an impeccable job at masking his inner turmoil and thoughts, that the PI rarely attempts at gauging him anymore. Which is why Eve finds herself taken aback by the blatant and almost _leisurely_ eyeing up she is subjected to, head to toe.

The North Carolinian doesn’t often dwell on the possibility of a relationship with another. Between her work taking a precedence over all else – except Nathaniel and Rebecca – and her elder brother’s propensity to behave overprotective, to the point of intimidating any potential romantic interests away, Evangeline hasn’t considered a man in such a light for quite some time. And yet, with all the excitement Gotham has bestowed upon her since her arrival, it’s as if the city, through all of its thrills and tense, perilous spectacles, has also lead her to consider these kinds of relationships again.

Harv – Two Face – prompts a wild, raw and free feeling inside of her. He’s unpredictable, dangerous, but has also proven in his own, skewed way that he cares, even if it’s only out of his own self-interest to protect and preserve his best means to take down Roman Sionis. Eve isn’t blind however, she _did_ notice him check her out earlier today. Whether that sliver of mutual attraction will ever be addressed or acted upon is unknown, and in all honesty, it wouldn’t be wise to, not with their starkly differing views on just about everything. If she were to consider Harvey that would be different, but even then, she’s barely talked to the more level headed half, and either way, the two are a package deal. He – they – shouldn’t even be up for consideration… and yet, they are.

_Bruce_ , however, is an astoundingly different option altogether, entirely disparate territory riddled with other obstacles in comparison to Harvey and Harv. Morally, they are certainly more compatible, and Eve doesn’t feel at odds or uncomfortable with his evening occupation. He _is_ beginning to understand that he can’t coddle her, can’t stop her from going out there – she would never ask that of him, so why does he ask that of her? – but she can sense that if the situation was quite dire, he would be ready to forbid her from doing so once again. Eve appreciates the care and motive behind the gesture, and is more than capable of understanding when she may be pushing her abilities and safety with these escapades – excluding last night – but she is uncertain if she can stay with a partner long term who fails to put their trust in that judgement, and tries to overbearingly control her so, but, perhaps he won’t. The Southerner can’t disregard an entire relationship based on a possibility of a complication like that occurring.

Not to mention, he _is_ attractive. That goes without saying, in Eve’s opinion. The undeniably handsome face of the distinguished, famously handsome playboy and billionaire Bruce Wayne, and the hard, breathtakingly well-built physique of the rough vigilante Batman. It would be a lie saying that the close proximity and distinct lack of clothes on her behalf _doesn’t_ make Evangeline’s heart skip a few beats.

Tongue in cheek, a smile twitches at the corner of Eve’s lips, locking her knowing hazel gaze with that of Bruce’s marginally glazed and stern blue one. “See something you like, Master Bruce?”

The Dark Knight’s stare narrows at the phrasing, head cocked a centimetre to the right in examination. “You heard.”

“Almost didn’t – wouldn’t of, if Tim hadn’t discreetly pointed out the two of you loitering in the doorway first. I’m not as adept and aware of additional surrounding presences as he is, you trained him well,” the PI admits, one hand still firmly holding the dark brown towel up, just in case. “Alfred’s lovely compliment of the sun certainly brightened my mood, he’s delightful that man. He was also right, you know, about the other thing.”

The Caped Crusader is careful not to hint too much at his own traitorous thoughts when she speaks. Said expression remains just as impassive when the investigator reaches out to gently trace her fingers across the right side of his jawline, the tender, soft caress leaving a pleasurable tingle in its wake, until her thumb ever so briefly brushes over his lower lip, the sensation so light but so overwhelmingly stimulating. Her gaze flickers down to the fleeting contact, before returning to his own nearly unblinking, impenetrable stare as she drops her hand, taking a step away and into the hall, allowing him his own space and time to think. “Something to consider, at least.”

The vigilante doesn’t offer any words after she finishes, and neither does the PI, Bruce allowing her to retreat into her room and out of his sight, eyes following her all the way. With his lips set in a firm line, the Batman sighs to himself in the lonesome hall. _That certainly complicates things._

Knowing the uncertain but clearly there feelings are mutual doesn’t precisely help untangle them, but in a way, he is still glad he knows. It doesn’t make it easier avoiding and repressing them, but if on the off chance he _did_ pursue them, it wouldn’t be for unreciprocated.

Shaking his head of the topic for now, the billionaire strides away in the opposite direction of her room, heading towards the stairs and dining room for dinner, deciding to file away the tumultuous thoughts for later.

Dinner transpires without a hitch. In fact, to the surprise of the men in the room, Dick Grayson even arrives in time to join them. The Blüdhaven vigilante does own an apartment in Gotham, one they expected him to stay in that night, but the twenty-three-year-old apparently decided that he wished to spend more time with Tim and Alfred – and maybe Bruce – whilst he was in Gotham, missing the presence of the two when he’s by his lonesome in Blüdhaven. Wally West visits often, and Roy Harper even manages to pop in once in a blue moon, but friends are one thing, family another. Dick _does_ happen to spend time with his younger adopted brother whenever Young Justice gets together, being one of the founders and leaders of the team, but even then that’s during working hours. Dinners such as these are rare.

Another reason for the charming former circus acrobat’s presence however is the current subject of his fascination; Evangeline Winter. Dick and Bruce may not always see eye to eye, and he certainly doesn’t appreciate it whenever arguments like this morning’s break out, but he still _does_ care about his adoptive father. It’s taken a few years to come to terms with how things ended between them after Dick left to become Nightwing, but they are in a better place now, so of course Dick is going to be the nosey, inquisitive son he is and poke around the possible new addition to their circle.

B’s reaction last night to him arriving at the Batcave with Miss Winter in his arms made the Dark Knight’s relationship with the woman abundantly clear; whatever it is, it isn’t just platonic. Whilst that may not seem clear or specific, to Dick, it is. Bruce rarely even considers potential romantic options these days, and the few he has in the past haven’t usually been ethically aligned with him, or aware of his identity. Right now the two may be more friends than anything else, but the _possibility_ , the _spark_ for something more – Dick saw it. Saw it in the way he held her head as he checked her concussion for the third time, this time whilst she was awake. Saw it in the way she leant into his touch as he drew away, but stopped herself before it became too obvious. Saw it in the way she reached out and grabbed his arm, assuring him that she would never endanger him or any of them, and how Bruce _accepted_ that touch.

Even now, over dinner, it seems it only took a _day_ for Tim to grow fond of the PI as well, the young teenager enthused as he recounts their afternoon together, of the two of them helping one another, of how it only took a glance at a lady’s hair, skin and shoes to determine so much about her. Dick Grayson is profoundly protective of his family, which is why he wishes to get to know the North Carolinian more prior to his return to Blüdhaven, to understand her motives and the kind of person she truly is before leaving her with his family. And so far, Nightwing has to admit; she is an unbelievably nice and optimistic person.

She includes Alfred in conversation, makes Tim laugh freely like a normal teen, and even prompts a smile or two from Bruce. The raven haired woman indulges him in any subtle questions he slips in about anything; from where she’s from, to her quiet criminal brother and strongly opinionated best friend who works as a psychiatrist at Arkham. The whole idea of someone being so open and honest about everything is borderline startling after being in his profession for so long, where everyone keeps their secrets close to their chest, even ones that are seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

Later, in the Batcave, Dick even broaches the topic with Bruce, the two of them and Tim suited up and standing before the Batcomputer as Barbara compiles all the information of a break in that occurred a couple hours ago.

“She’s open, you know. Very open. Honest. Isn’t put off by speaking her mind peacefully, communicating what she’s feeling and thinking,” Nightwing casually but seriously comments, sending his adoptive father a look. “Every time she opens her mouth, what comes out is true and carefully phrased, not a single word going to waste. It’s amazing, the wonders of respect, honesty and communication—”

“You’re not subtle, Dick,” the dark clad hero intervenes his first Robin, arms firmly crossed, cowl still off, and keeping his stern stare fixed on the main large screen.

Innocently, the blue and black vigilante shrugs, throwing his arms up in surrender. “I’m just saying; I don’t know her, not well, and I intend to get to know her a bit better before really coming to a judgment on this, but so far, it feels like it would be good to have her around maybe a little more regularly. Good for Tim, Alfred… you.”

“They’re fine, I’m fine,” the Batman dusts off, momentarily shooting his eldest a look that says ‘end of conversation’. “Right now, we have a very heavily armed, murderous Black Mask loose, another potential mob war on the horizon, and now a fatal team up of wreaking havoc on Gotham. When all of that is done and dealt with, _maybe_ then, we can discuss this.”

Dick nods once in understanding, knowing Bruce is right, but also aware he’s simply putting off such talks, as he always does. “Got it – Babs, what’ve we got?”

“Ivy and Quinn,” the red-head answers, pulling up their images on the screen, as well as a few blurred images of them committing the crime a couple hours prior. Bruce leans further over Oracle’s chair scrutinizing some of the images. “Ace’s cameras managed to get a few pictures of them in act, they’re not quite clear though.”

“Choosing a weekend date, Sir?”

The wry comment garners a couple amused snorts from Robin and Nightwing, as well as a light laugh from the private investigator accompanying the butler. Without turning to answer, Bruce slips into his alternate persona, severely informing “Pamela Isley and Harleen Quinzel broke into Ace Chemicals two hours ago, yet nothing was stolen, and no one was hurt, except for a light scuffle between them and three of the guards. Besides the guards, a couple scientists witnessed the intrusion, one even conversed with Isley. Harley only recently broke up with the Joker, and Ace is where he fell into that vat of acid… could be connected, or this could entirely be a scheme of Ivy’s making. We need more information.”

“I can handle Ivy and Quinn,” Nightwing chimes in, addressing the Dark Knight. “That way you and Robin can focus on Sionis and the mobs. I’ll head to the GCPD first, question the witnesses, then head to Ace.”

Batman agrees, the three vigilantes and Oracle hashing over their roles and plans for the night for another ten minutes, before donning their masks and cowl, making their way to their vehicles. Tim and Dick both shoot Alfred and Eve friendly smiles, the former slipping into the Batmobile whilst the latter climbs his high tech motorcycle. When Bruce passes his surrogate father and the Southerner, he pauses, regarding Miss Winter intensely, stare hard. “You need to rest tonight. You almost died twice last night, and you’re still recovering from your concussion. Take it easy, stay here. We’ll handle Sionis.”

Displeased, Eve nonetheless acquiesces, faintly smiling. “Okay, just for tonight. Thank you. Take care of yourself Bruce, and them.”

The Caped Crusader nods in affirmation at her request, lingering a moment longer before passing by and disappearing into the Batmobile. All three heroes are gone from the cave within the minute, leaving Alfred, Oracle and Miss Winter to their devices.

Glancing back at the elder gentleman and investigator knowingly, Barbara smiles, the twenty-one-year-old directing her entertainment towards Evangeline. “You’re not really going to stick around, are you?”

“Good heavens no, but he wouldn’t have quite left otherwise,” Eve replies, feeling slightly guilty for lying to Mr Wayne’s face. _It was for good reason_ , she attempts to justify, unable to dispel the guilt in its entirety.

Much to her surprise, both remaining Bat-family members don’t admonish her for the admission. In fact, they strangely enough do the opposite.

“Great! Here, catch,” Barbara tosses her an ear piece, the PI catching it just in time, inspecting the advanced piece of technology in her hand. “If you need anything whilst you’re out there, let me know. Just be careful about linking up to any of their channels, otherwise they’ll probably track you down pretty quickly.”

“May I drop you off somewhere Miss?” Alfred offers, earning her attention. “Save you the cab fare?”

“I may actually take you up on that Alfred, thank you. Both of you,” Eve sincerely expresses her gratitude, already heading back up in the direction of the manor. “First, however, I require a wardrobe change. Meet you out front in ten, Alfred?”

“Of course Miss Winter.”

With that being said, Evangeline Winter begins to formulate her game plan for the night, possessing no intentions of allowing any vigilantes or criminals she’s familiar with to interfere with her tonight, not without her intending for them to do so. The detective had already sent Harv and Harvey a text disclosing Sionis’ plans to hit their casino later this evening, which should hopefully keep them occupied enough. The real trick of tonight is poking around Gotham for information on Black Mask, without actually getting _near_ Black Mask.

_Precarious, but doable_ , Eve reasons, slipping on a breathable, creamy white pantsuit she nicked from her apartment earlier today, immediately rolling up the sleeves on the blazer. It’s going to be a hot night, cooler than the day, but still humid and heavy. The Southerner needs to look presentable, however, for the particular destinations she has in mind. She only hopes there will be no need to remove any bloodstains from the easily stainable fabric after tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longggg while since I've updated, sorry! Started uni in July, so it's been hectic since then. But it's a biggie, so I hope you liked! (If anyone is still around)
> 
> Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx  
> ~ T.L


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